.or 


AKE 


BT 


Mli-SOUTHWORTH 


Robert  P.  Utter. 


TJV 


~w  ^ 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE  ? 


A  SEQUEL  TO  "  WHY  DID  HE  WED  HER? 


By  MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH 

Author  of 

"Lilith,"   "The  Unloved  Wife,"    "Em,"    "  Em's  Husband,3 
"Ishmael,"  ««  Self- Raised,"  Etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
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Popular    Books 

By  MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH 

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Price  60  Cents  per  Volume 


CAPITOLA'S  PERIL 

CRUEL  AS  THE  GRAVE 

"EM" 

EM'S  HUSBAND 

FOR  WHOSE  SAKE 

ISHMAEL 

LILITH 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATE 

THE  CHANGED  BRIDES 

THE  HIDDEN'  HAND 

THE  UNLOVED  WIFE 

TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE 

SELF-RAISED 

WHY  DID  HE  WED  HER 


For  Sale  by  all  Booksellers 
or  will  be  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price 

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52  Duane  Street New  York 


Copyright,  1884 
By  ROBERT    BONNER 

FOR  WHOSE  SAKE 


Printed  by  special  arrangement  with 
STREET  &  SMITH 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 


CHAPTER  I 

A  STARTLING  RENCONTRE 

Two  TRAVELERS  on  board  the  ocean  steamer  Scorpio, 
bound  from  New  York  to  Liverpool,  were  Gentleman  Geff 
and  his  queenly  bride. 

He  was  in  blissful  ignorance  that  his  forsaken  wife  and 
her  infant  were  on  the  same  ship. 

The  wife  whom  he  believed  to  be  in  her  pauper  grave  in 
potter's  field,  and  the  child  of  whose  birth  he  had  never 
heard ! 

Gentleman  Geff  was  riding  on  the  topmost  wave  of  suc 
cess  and  popularity.  He  had  paid  a  high  price  for  his  for 
tune,  but  he  told  himself  continually  that  the  fortune  was 
worth  all  he  had  given  for  it. 

Certainly  there  were  two  awful  pictures  that  would  pre 
sent  themselves  to  his  mental  vision  with  terrible  distinct 
ness  and  persistent  regularity. 

The  first  was  of  a  deep  wood,  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  a 
young  man's  ghastly  face  turned  up  to  the  starlight. 

The  other  was  of  a  silent  city  street,  in  the  dark  hours  be 
fore  day,  and  a  girl's  form  prone  upon  the  pavement,  with  a 
dark  stream  creeping  from  a  wound  in  her  side. 

There  were  moments  when  the  murderer  would  have 
given  all  that  he  had  gained  by  his  crimes  to  wake  up  and 
find  that  they  had  all  been  "the  phantasmagoria  of  a  mid 
night  dream";  that  he  was  not  the  counterfeit  Randolph 
Hay,  Esquire,  of  Haymore,  with  a  rent  roll  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds  sterling  a  year,  and  an  income  from  in 
vested  funds_£t  jayi^e  #s  much,  and  with  two  atrocious 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 


murders  on  his  souls  l-ut  simply  the  poor  devil  of  an  ad 
venturer  who  lived  by  his  witsa  and  was  known  to  the  miners 

' 


, 

At  such  times  he  'would  'drink  deeply  of  brandy,  and 
under  its  influence  find  all  his  views  change.  He  would 
philosophize  about  life,  fortune,  destiny,  necessity,  and  try 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  been  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning."  He  then  felt  sure  that,  if  he  had  been  born 
to  wealth,  he  would  have  been  a  philanthropist  of  the  high 
est  order,  a  benefactor  to  the  whole  human  race  ;  would  have 
founded  churches,  and  sent  out  missionaries;  would  have 
established  hospitals  and  asylums,  and  erected  model  tene 
ment  houses  for  the  poor. 

Ah  !  how  good  and  great  a  man  he  would  have  proved 
himself  if  he  had  only  been  born  to  vast  wealth  !  But  he 
had  been  born  to  genteel  poverty.  Fate  had  been  unkind. 
It  was  all  the  fault  of  fate,  he  argued. 

In  this  exaltation  he  would  go  into  the  gentlemen's 
saloon,  sit  down  at  one  of  the  gaming  tables,  and  stake, 
and  win  or  Jose,  large  sums  of  money;  and  so,  in  the  fever 
ish  mental  and  physical  excitement  of  drinking  and  gam 
bling,  he  would  seek  to  drive  away  remorse. 

Often  he  would  drink  himself  into  a  state  of  maudlin 
sentimentality,  and  in  that  state  reel  into  the  stateroom 
occupied  by  himself  and  his  bride.  He  was  really  more  "in 
love"  with  Lamia  Leegh  than  he  had  ever  been  with  any 
woman  in  his  long  career  of  "lady-killing."  He  had  mar 
ried  her  for  love,  although  it  was  the  Turk's  love. 

But  Lamia  did  not  love  him  in  the  least.  She  had  mar 
ried  him  for  rank,  money  and  position.  She  had  begun  by 
.  liking  him,  then  enduring  him,  and  now  she  ended  by  de 
testing  him. 

"Some  poor  girls  marry  old  men  for  money;  some  marry 
ugly  men  or  withered  men  for  the  same  cause  ;  but  to  marry 
a  drunkard  for  that,  or  for  any  cause  ;  to  be  obliged  to  live 
with  the  beast  ;  to  be  unable  to  escape  from  him  ;  to  see  him 
clay  and  night  ;  to  smell  his  nauseous  breath  —  it  is  horrible, 
abhorrent,  abominable  !"  she  said  to  herself. 

Yet  she  never  dared  to  let  her  disgust  and  abhorrence  ap 
pear  to  its  object.  She  was  too  politic  to  offend  him,  for  — 
he  held  the  purse  strings.  There  had  been  no  settlements  — 
nothing  of  the  sort  —  notwithstanding  all  the  talk  about 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  5 

them  with  Will  Walling.  For  every  dollar  she  would  re 
ceive  she  must  depend  on  her  husband. 

The  Cashmere  shawls  and  sable  furs  and  solitaire  dia~ 
monds  that  she  longed  for,  if  she  should  get  them  at  all, 
must  be  got  from  him,  and  she  knew  she  would  get  them, 
and  everything  else  she  might  want,  so  long  as  he  should 
possess  his  fortune  and  she  retain  his  favor.  So  she  veiled 
her  dislike  under  a  show  of  affection,  and  she  even  made 
for  herself  a  rule  and  set  for  herself  a  task,  so  that  he  might 
never  find  out  her  real  feelings  toward  him. 

The  more  disgusted  she  might  really  be,  the  more  enam 
ored  she  would  pretend  to  be. 

This  was  surely  a  very  hard  way  of  earning  diamonds 
and  the  rest,  but,  like  Gentleman  Geff,  she  told  herself  that 
they  were  worth  it ;  and  she  thought  so. 

Their  fellow  passengers  all  knew  them  to  be  a  newly  mar 
ried  pair;  for  there  happened  to  be  a  few  New  York 
" society"  people  on  the  ship,  who  had  hoard  all  about  the 
grand  wedding  at  Peter  Vansitart's,  and  they  had  spread 
the  new?  in  the  first  cabin. 

Their  fellow  voyagers  also  believed  them  to  be  a  very 
happy  couple;  though  ladies  sometimes  whispered  together 
that  he  certainly  did  look  rather  dissipated ;  and  gentlemen 
remarked  to  each  other  that  it  was  a  pity  he  drank  so  hard 
and  played  so  high.  It  was  a  bad  beginning  at  his  age,  and 
if  it  should  continue  Haymore  fortunes  could  scarcely 
"stand  the  racket." 

But  notwithstanding  these  drawbacks,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ean- 
dolph  Hay  were  very  popular  among  their  fellow  voyagers. 

The  weather  continued  good  for  the  first  week. 

The  bride  and  groom  were  daily  to  be  seen  on  deck — well 
wrapped  up,  for  the  fine  October  days  were  cold  on  mid- 
ocean. 

Yet  though  they  were  every  day  on  deck,  they  had  never 
yet  encountered  Jennie. 

How  was  that?    And  where  was  Jennie? 

Jennie  Montgomery  was  in  her  stateroom,  so  prostrated 
by  seasickness  that  she  was  scarcely  able  to  take  care  of  her 
child.  She  had  never  once  left  her  room  even  to  go  into  the 
ladies'  saloon,  but  passed  her  time  between  her  lower  berth 
and  her  broad  sofa. 

Stewardess    Hopkins    became  interested  in    poor    little 


6  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Jennie  and  her  baby — "one  as  much  of  a  baby  as  t'other," 
she  had  said  to  one  of  the  stateroom  stewards — and  so  she 
showed  them  kindness  from  a  heartfelt  sympathy,  such  as 
no  fee  could  have  purchased. 

On  the  eighth  day  out,  Mrs.  Hopkins  was  in  the  room 
with  the  young  mother  and  child,  when  Jennie,  looking 
gratefully  at  the  stewardess,  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes : 

''Oh,  Mrs.  Hopkins,  I  do  thank  you  with  all  my  heart, 
but  feel  so  deeply  that  that  is  not  enough.  I  shall  never, 
never  be  able  to  repay  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  me." 

"Don't  talk  in  that  way,  my  dear/'  replied  the  stewardess, 
in  self-depreciation. 

"If  it  were  not  for  you,  I  believe  that  I  and  baby  should 
both  die  on  the  sea." 

"Oh,  no,  dear.  'The  Lord  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb/  and  if  I  hadn't  been  here  He  would  have  provided 
some  one  else  for  you.  But  now,  dear,  I  do  really  think  you 
ought  to  try  and  exert  yourself  to  go  up  on  deck.  Here 
we  are  a  week  at  sea,  and  you  have  had  no  enjoyment  of  the 
voyage  at  all.  Don't  you  think,  now  that  the  baby  has  gone 
to  sleep,  and  is  safe  to  be  quiet  for  two  or  three  hours,  you 
could  let  me  wrap  you  up  warm  and  help  you  up  on  deck  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  do  so,  but  I  am  not  able;  indeed  I  am 
not.  I  am  as  weak  as  a  rat." 

''Rats  are  remarkably  strong  for  their  size,  my  dear,  for 
they're  all  muscle.  And  as  for  you  being  weak,  it  is  only  a 
nervous  fancy,  caused  by  your  seasickness.  But  you're  over 
that  now.  And  if  you  will  only  let  me  help  you  up  on  deck, 
why,  every  step  you  take  and  every  breath  you  breathe  wrill 
give  you  new  life  and  strength,"  persisted  the  stewardess. 

"Well,  I  will  go." 

Jennie  stood  up,  hoi  ding  by  the  edge  of  the  upper  berth 
for  support,  while  the  stewardess  prepared  her  to  go  up  on 
deck. 

And  when  last  of  all  Jennie  was  well  wrapped  up  in  her 
fur-lined  cloak,  Mrs.  Hopkins  led  and  supported  her  to  the 
stairs,  and  took  her  carefully  up  to  the  deck,  and  found  her 
a  sheltered  seat  on  the  lee  side. 

"Sit  here,"  she  said,  "and  every  breath  of  this  fresh  air 
you  breathe  will  give  you  new  life." 

And  having  tucked  a  rug  well  around  the  feet  of  her 
charge,  the  stewardess  left  Jennie  to  herself. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  7 

Jennie  looked  around  her.  There  were  very  few  people 
within  the  range  of  her  vision,  only  the  man  at  the  wheel 
and  two  or  three  deck  hands. 

It  was  the  luncheon  nour,  and  nearly  all  the  passengers 
who  were  not  in  their  staterooms  had  gone  to  the  dining 
saloon. 

Then  Jennie  looked  abroad  over  the  boundless  expanse  of 
dazzling  blue  sea,  leaping  and  sparkling  under  the  light  of 
a  radiant  blue  sky.  It  was  splendid,  glorious,  but  blinding 
to  vision  just  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  stateroom  and  cabin, 
and  so  Jennie  closed  her  eyes  to  recover  them,  and  sat  with 
them  closed  for  some  moments.  At  this  hour  it  was  very 
quiet  on  deck.  Only  the  sounds  of  the  ship's  movements 
were  heard.  Jennie,  with  her  tired  eyes  shut,  sat  there  in 
calm  content. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  going  mad !  I  am  going  mad !  It  has  taken 
shape  at  last — or  is  this — delirium  tremens?  I — must  not 
— drink  so  much  !" 

It  was  a  low,  husky,  shuddering  voice  that  uttered  these 
strange  words  in  Jennie's  hearing. 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound,  looked  up  and  saw 

Kightly  Montgomery,  her  husband,  within  a  few  feet  of 
her,  staring  in  horror  upon  her,  while  he  supported  himself 
in  a  collapsed  state  against  the  bulwarks  of  the  ship.  The 
face  that  confronted  her  was  ashen,  ghastly,  awe-stricken, 
yet  defiant,  as  with  the  impotent  revolt  of  a  demon. 

Jennie  returned  his  glare  with  a  gaze  of  amazement  and 
perplexity. 

And  so  they  remained  spellbound,  staring  at  each  other, 
without  moving  or  speaking,  for  perhaps  a  full  minute. 

Jennie  was  the  first  to  recover  herself.  A  moment's  re 
flection  enabled  her  to  understand  the  situation — that 
Kightly  Montgomery,  under  his  new  name  and  with  his 
new  wife,  was  her  fellow  passenger  on  the  Scorpio.  This 
was  clear  enough  to  her  now. 

She  was  also  the  first  to  break  the  spell  of  silence,  though 
it  cost  her  an  effort  to  do  so,  and  her  voice  quivered,  and 
she  lowered  her  eyes  as  she  said : 

"You  seem  to  take  me  for  an  optical  illusion." 

He  still  glared  at  her  without  answering. 

"I  am  no  'illusion/  "  she  continued,  more  steadily,  gain 
ing  more  self-control  every  moment. 


8  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"If  not — what — in  the  devil — are  you?"  he  gasped  at 
length,  terrified,  yet  aggressive. 

"  I  am  your  wife ;  but  shall  never  claim,  or  wish  to  claim, 
the  position,"  she  replied,  still  keeping  her  e}res  down  to 
avoid  the  pain  of  seeing  his  face. 

"You  are — I  do  not — I  thought How "  he  be 
gan,  in  utter  confusion  of  mind,  and  with  his  eyes  starting 
from  the  intensity  of  his  stare. 

"Go  away,  please,  and  collect  yourself.  Do  not  fear  me. 
I  shall  not  trouble  you.  But  pray,  go  now,  and  do  not  come 
near  me  or  speak  to  me  again,"  said  Jennie. 

"But  I  thought — you  were  dead!"  he  blurted  out,  with 
brutal  bluntness. 

Jennie  reflected  for  a  moment.  Why  should  he  have 
thought  that  she  was  dead,  even  though  he  had  tried  to  kill 
her,  and  had  indeed  left  her  for  dead?  Then  she  concluded 
that  he  must  have  fled  from  the  city  immediately  after  hav 
ing  committed  the  crime  by  which  he  had  intended  to  rid 
himself  of  her  forever;  but  she  made  no  reply  to  his  remark. 

"Why  have  you  followed  me  here?"  he  demanded,  try 
ing  to  cover  his  intense  anxiety  with  an  air  of  bravado. 

."I  did  not  follow  you.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  to 
be  on  this  boat.  How  should  I  have  known  it?  And  why 
should  I  have  followed  you?"  she  calmly  inquired. 

"How  is  it — that  you  are  here,  then?"  he  questioned,  his 
voice  still  shaking,  his  eyes  staring,  his  form  supported 
against  the  bulwarks  of  the  ship. 

"I  am  going  home  to  my  fathers  house.  When  I  got 
well  in  the  Samaritan  Hospital  a  few  good  women  of  means 
clubbed  together  and  raised  the  funds  to  give  me  an  outfit 
and  pay  my  passage  to  England.  They  engaged  for  me  one 
of  the  best  staterooms  in  the  ladies'  cabin." 

"How  is  it — that  I  have  never  seen  you — or  suspected 
your  presence  on  the  ship  before?  Have  you  been  hiding 
from  me?" 

"No;  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  did  not  know  you 
were  on  board.  You  have  not  seen  me  because  I  have  been 
seasick  in  my  stateroom.  This  is  my  first  day  on  deck. 
And  now  will  you  please  to  go  away  and  leave  me?" 

"Presently.  By  Jove,  Jennie,  you  take  things  very 
coolly !"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  a  handkerchief  from  his 
breast  pocket  and  wiping  his  forehead,  on  which  beads  of 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  9 

perspiration  stood  out.  "What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  he 
suddenly  demanded. 

"Nettling  to  trouble  you  while  you  are  on  this  ship.  I  do 
not  wish  to  see,  or  speak  to,  or  even  to  know  you  here  again, 
and  I  will  not." 

"I — well — I  thank  you  for  so  much  grace.  But  what  will 
you  do  after  you  shall  have  reached  England?" 

"I  shall  tell  my  father  the  whole  story — of  which  he  has 
no  suspicion  now — and  I  shall  place  myself  in  his  hands  for 
direction,  and  do  whatever  he  counsels  me  to  do.  He  was 
my  guard  and  guide  all  my  life  until  I  threw  off  his  safe 
authority  and  followed  you.7' 

"Pity!"  muttered  Gentleman  Geff  to  himself. 

"And  now,"  said  Jennie,  "once  more,  and  for  the  third 
time,  I  beg  you  to  leave  me.  Let  this  distressing  and  most 
improper  interview  come  to  an  end  at  once.  I  think  it  is 
both  sinful  and  shameful,  in  view  of  the  past  and  the 
present,  for  you  to  speak  to  me,  or  even  to  look  at  me.  Per 
haps  I  am  doing  wrong  in  keeping  quiet.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  denounce  you  to  the  captain  and  officers  of  this  ship." 

"  That  would  be  quite  useless,  my  girl,"  exclaimed  Gentle 
man  Geff,  daring  to  speak  contemptuously  for  the  first  time 
during  the  interview,  yet  still  quaking  between  the  conflict 
ing  passions  of  terror  and  defiance;  "you  could  not  prove 
anything  against  me  here." 

"Probably  not;  and  my  interference  would  not  only  be 
useless,  but  worse  than  useless;  it  would  make  an  ugly  scan 
dal,  and  create  a  great  disturbance.  No,  I  will  do  nothing 
until  I  take  counsel  with  my  father.  But  let  me  give  you 
this  warning :  My  father  is  to  meet  me  at  Liverpool.  Do 
not  let  him  see  you  then !  And  now,  Capt.  Montgomery, 
if  you  do  not  leave  me,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  my  room," 
Jennie  concluded. 

Gentleman  Geff  turned  away.  It  was  time,  for  people 
were  leaving  the  dining  saloon  and  coming  up  on  deck. 

Several  people — men,  women  and  children — passed 
Jennie  on  their  way  forward;  nearly  every  one  of  these 
glanced  at  Jennie  with  more  or  less  interest;  for  hers  was 
a  new  face.  Now,  in  the  beginning  of  a  sea  voyage  nearly 
all  the  passengers  are  strangers  to  each  other.  But  after 
eight  days,  when  every  one  on  board  is  known  to  the  other 
by  sight,  a  new  face  is  an  event.  And  this  face  was  fair, 


10  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

pensive  and  interesting,  and  it  belonged  to  a  young  woman 
who  seemed  to  be  quite  alone  on  board. 

Among  those  who  passed  was  a  superbly  beautiful  woman, 
whose  Juno-like  form  was  wrapped  in  a  rich  fur-lined  cloak, 
the  hood  of  which  was  drawn  over  her  lovely  head,  partly 
concealing  the  glory  of  her  red,  gold-hued  hair,  and  half 
shading  the  radiance  of  her  blond  and  blooming  com 
plexion. 

This  goddess  did  something  more  than  glance  at  the 
pretty,  pale,  child-like  form  reclining  there.  She  stopped 
and  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  when  Jennie 
lowered  her  eyes,  the  goddess  passed  on. 

When  the  stream  of  passengers  had  all  gone  forward 
Jennie  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  and  composed  herself  to  rest 
and  to  think  over  the  sudden,  overwhelming  interview 
which  had  just  passed  between  herself  and  her  husband. 

Jennie  was  troubled,  not  in  her  affections — for  if  Kightly 
Montgomery  had  not  succeeded  in  slaying  her,  he  had  cer 
tainly  managed  to  kill  her  love  for  him — but  in  her  con 
science.  Was  she  right  in  letting  him  go  on  in  his  course 
of  evil  ?  Ought  she  not  to  stop  it  ?  But  could  she,  even  if 
she  tried  ?  And  she  shrank  from  trying.  For  if  she  should 
succeed  in  exposing  him,  what  a  terrible  mortification  it 
would  be  to  that  unfortunate  young  lady  whom  he  had 
feloniously  married;  who  was  reported  to  be  as  religious 
and  charitable  as  she  was  beautiful  and  accomplished ;  who, 
even  in  the  busy  week  before  her  wedding  day,  had  given 
time  to  go  out  shopping  for  her — Jennie's — outfit;  and 
whom  it  was  now  too  late  to  save,  since  she  had  been  living 
with  her  supposed  husband  for  a  week. 

To  expose  him  now,  and  here,  would  be  to  degrade  her 
before  all  the  ship's  passengers,  so  that  all  who  now  ad 
mired,  honored  or  envied  her,  would  soon  pity  and  avoid 
her. 

Jennie  could  not  bring  an  "unoffending"  fellow  creature 
to  that  pass;  and  if  her  forbearance  was  a  sin,  she  hoped 
the  Lord  would  pardon  her  for  His  sake  who  pitied  the 
sinful  woman. 

While  Jennie  was  "wrestling"  so  in  the  spirit,  the  stew 
ardess  came  up  and  put  her  baby  in  her  arms,  smiling,  and 
saying : 

"As  I  was  passing  by  your  stateroom  I  just  looked  in  to 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  11 

see  if  all  was  right,  and  then  I  saw  this  little  thing  lying 
wide  awake  and  crowing  to  herself  as  good  as  pie.  And  I 
thought  I  would  wrrap  her  up  and  bring  her  to  you  for  a 
breath  of  this  good,  fresh  air,  which,  if  it  was  doing  you 
good,  wouldn't  do  her  harm.  Was  I  right  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Hopkins.  And  I  thank  you  so  much," 
said  Jennie,  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  babe  that  lay 
upon  her  lap;  but  Mrs.  Hopkins  had  already  gone  about 
her  business. 

Jennie  smiled  and  cooed  to  the  little  one,  enjoying  its 
presence,  and  rejoicing  that  Kightly  Montgomery  was  gone 
from  her  side  and  \vas  not  likely  to  return.  She  had  pur 
posely  avoided  speaking  of  the  child  to  him.  She  was  glad 
that  he  had  not  once  inquired  about  it.  She  had  almost  a 
superstitious  dread  of  his  seeing,  touching  or  even  knowing 
of  the  babe,  for  fear  that  his  evil  nature  might,  in  some 
moral,  physical  or,  perhaps,  occult  way,  bring  harm  to  the 
little  innocent. 

She  was  still  bending  over  the  babe,  when  a  soft,  sweet, 
melodious  voice  addressed  her. 

"Pardon  me,  you  are  Mrs.  Montgomery,  are  you  not?" 

Jennie  looked  up.  The  goddess  had  come  back.  Jennie 
did  not  know  her,  but  she  answered  quietly: 

"Yes,  madam." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay;  and  that  I  had  heard  of  you 
and  become  interested  in  you  must  be  my  excuse  for  in 
truding  my  acquaintance  on  you,"  added  the  beauty,  with  a 
bewitching  smile. 

Jennie  flushed,  paled,  trembled  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

This,  then,  was  Lamia  Leegh,  the  unfortunate  young  lady 
whom  Kightly  Montgomery  had  married! 

Jennie  felt  sorry  for  her,  standing  there  in  all  the  pride 
and  pomp  of  her  beauty  and  wealth. 

"You  are  very  kind,  madam,"  was  all  that  she  could  find 
to  say,  in  a  low  tone,  with  downcast  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks. 

The  goddess  thought  the  little  woman  overpowered  by 
her  own  grandeur,  smiled  condescendingly,  and  said  com 
placently  : 

"What  a  pretty  baby  you  have!     Girl  or  a  boy?" 

"Girl,  madam." 

"That  is  right.    I  love  girl  babies.    What  is  her  name?" 

"She  is  not  christened  yet." 


12  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Two  months  on  the  third  of  this  month,  madam." 

"Ah!  She  is  well  grown  for  that  age.  I  need  not  ask 
if  she  has  good  health.  She  looks  so  well." 

"Oh,  yes,  madam.     Thank  Heaven!" 

"This  is  the  first  time  you  have  been  on  deck,  I  think?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Suffered  from  seasickness,  I  fear." 

"Yes,  madam,  until  this  morning." 

"Ah!  very  sad  to  have  missed  all  this  beautiful  voyage. 
An  exceptionally  fine  voyage.  I  have  crossed  many  times, 
but  have  never  experienced  so  fine  a  voyage." 

Jennie  did  not  reply. 

"  But,  then,  seasickness  is  a  great  benefit  to  some  constitu 
tions.  I  hope  that  it  will  have  been  so  in  your  case." 

Still  Jennie  did  not  answer,  except  by  a  bow. 

"Have  you  quite  recovered?" 

"Quite,  ma'am,  thank  you." 

"Yet  you  feel  weak?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"That  will  pass  away.  You  are  traveling  quite  alone,  I 
believe." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Then,  if  I  or  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay  can  be  of  any  service 
to  you,  I  hope  you  will  call  on  us.  I,  and  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Hay  also,  would  be  very  much  pleased  to  serve  you." 

"I  thank  you,  madam,  very  much,  but  my  dear  father 
will  meet  me  at  Liverpool,  so  that  I  shall  not  need  assist 
ance.  But  equally  I  thank  you." 

Jennie  would  have  said  more  had  she  been  able.  She 
would  have  acknowledged  the  services  or  the  supposed  serv 
ices  the  lady  had  performed  for  her  before  they  had  ever 
met ;  but  her  tongue  "clove  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth/'  so 
to  speak.  It  was  all  she  could  do  to  utter  the  perfunctory 
words  she  had  spoken,  and  these  without  raising  her  eyes  to 
the  face  of  the  goddess. 

Mrs.  Eandolph  Hay  bowed  graciously,  and  passed  on 
toward  the  cabin. 

"Poor  thing!"  breathed  Jennie,  with  deep  pity;  "poor, 
poor  thing!  She,  so  proud,  so  stately,  so  beautiful,  to  be 
cast  down  to  the  dust !  Oh,  no !  Heaven  pardon  me,  but 
I  must  spare  him  for  her  sake !  I  will  do  nothing  until  I 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  13 

see  my  father,  and  then  I  must  tell  him  all,  and  be  guided 
by  his  counsels." 

So  then  Jennie  stooped  and  kissed  her  baby  and  felt  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

Lamia  Leegh  was  not  one  to  hide  her  "light  under  a 
bushel." 

Before  many  hours  had  passed  every  one  had  heard  the 
pathetic  story  of  the  English  curate's  young  daughter,  who 
had  been  married,  deserted  and  months  afterward  half 
murdered  by  her  husband;  how  she  had  been  taken  to  the 
Samaritan  Hospital,  where  she  became  a  mother;  how  cer 
tain  charitable  ladies  had  become  so  interested  in  her  case 
that  they  had  made  up  a  fund  to  give  her  and  her  child  an 
outfit  and  send  them  home  to  her  father,  and  how  she  was 
on  this  very  ship. 

Without  claiming  all  the  credit  in  so  many  words,  Lamia 
Leegh  had  left  the  impression  on  the  minds  of  her  hearers 
that  she  herself  had  been  the  principal,  if  not  the  only,  bene 
factress  of  Jennie  Montgomery,  and  she  won  applause  for 
her  benevolence. 

When  Kightly  Montgomery  left  his  wife  seated  on  the 
deck  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  to  get  out  of  her  pres 
ence.  He  hurried  to  his  stateroom,  looked  around,  and 
felt  more  relief  to  find  that  his  deceived  bride  was  absent. 

He  kept  a  private  stock  of  strong  old  brandy  in  a  case. 
He  opened  a  bottle,  poured  out  half  a  goblet  full,  and  drank 
it  at  a  draught. 

Then  he  felt  better  still. 

"She  will  keep  her  word,"  he  said  to  himself.  "If  she 
had  intended  to  give  me  away,  she  would  have  done  so  be 
fore  this.  Any  man  would  have  denounced  another  under 
such  circumstances.  But  these  women  are  inexplicable.  I 
wonder  if  her  child  was  born  alive?  I  wonder  if  it  is  living, 
and  if  she  has  it  with  her,  or  if  she  has  placed  it  in  some 
asylum?  Impossible  to  say.  She  volunteers  no  informa 
tion  on  the  subject,  and  I  certainly  cannot  question  her 
about  it.  She  wishes  me  to  avoid  her.  I  am  quite  willing 
to  oblige  her  in  that  particular.  I  very  much  do  not  wish 
to  see  her  again.  No,  nor  her  father !  I  must  not  meet  the 
dominie,  under  present  complications.  It  would  be  awk 
ward.  I  shall  shirk  that  rencontre  by  getting  off  the 


14  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

steamer  at  Queenstown  and  taking  the  mail  route  to  London 
via  Kingstown  and  Holyhead.    That  will  do  ! 

He  filled  and  drank  another  half  goblet  of  brandy,  and 
then  sat  staring  at  his  boots. 

Presently    Lamia    Leegh    entered  the    stateroom. 
looked  up  at  her  stupidly.    His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes 
were  fishy     The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  brandy,     b  he 
knew  that  he  had  been  drinking  to  intoxication;  but  she 
cared  too  little  for  him  and  too  much  for  herself  to  notice 
this     He  might  drink  himself  to  death,  if  he  pleased,  with-  , 
out  any  interference  from  her,  so  that  he  supplied  her  with 
plenty  of  money  while  he  lived  and  left  her  a  rich  dower 
whence  should  die. 

So,  without  seeming  to  notice  his  state,  she  sat  down  o 
the  sofa  by  him  and  said,  very  pleasantly  : 

"You  remember  hearing  me  speak  of  that  interesting 
young  woman  from  the  Samaritan  Hospital  for  whom  we 
furnished  an  outfit  and  engaged  a  stateroom  in  this  cabin 
to  send  her  home  to  her  people?" 

"What  young  woman  ?    Ah  !  yes,  I  believe  I  do.    Wnat  ot 
her?"  he  drawled,  with  assumed  indifference. 
"I  have  just  seen  her  and  her  child  -  " 
"Child?"  he  echoed  involuntarily. 
"Yes;  I  told  you  she  had  a  child,  you  remember. 
«Aw  —  no  —  I  didn't." 

"Oh,  ves.  Such  a  pretty  little  girl  baby!  They  have 
been  shut  up  in  their  stateroom  for  a  week  on  account  ot 
the  mother's  seasickness.  She  is  out  on  deck  to-day  f  or  the 
first  time.  When  I  saw  a  new  face  there  I  thought  it  was 
hers,  but  was  not  certain,  so  I  passed  her  by.  But  a  little 
later  when  I  saw  the  stewardess  place  a  young  infant 
her  arms,  then  I  felt  almost  certain,  and  I  went  up  and 
spoke  to  her.  A  prodigal  daughter,  I  fear  she  is,  but  a  ost 
interesting  one,  and  her  father  is  to  meet  her  at  Liverpo< 


1T1"La^ia"  interrupted  the  man,  "suppose  we  drop  ^  the 
subject,    i  am  not  at  all  interested  in  your  charity  girl. 
He  yawned  with  a  bored  air. 

"Oh,  very  well;  what  shall  we  talk  about?    The  end  of 
the  voae?    Well,  I  heard  the  captain  say  that  we  shall 


, 
be  at  Queenstown  to-morrow  morning." 

"And  we  shall  get  off  at  Queenstown;  do  you  hear 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  15 

"At  Queenstown?  But  why,  when  our  tickets  are  for 
Liverpool ?" 

"Because  I  will  it  to  be  so !"  said  the  man,  in  the  sullen 
wilfulness  of  intoxication. 

"Oh,  very  well !  Quite  right !  So  be  it !"  replied  Lamia, 
with  contemptuous  submission. 

And  the  discussion  ended. 

She  loosened  her  dress  and  laid  herself  down  on  the 
lower  berth  to  take  an  afternoon  nap. 

He  sat  on  the  sofa,  with  the  brandy  bottle  before  him, 
and  drank  and  drank  and  drank. 

That  evening  Gentleman  Geff  was  much  too  drunk  to  go 
into  the  dining  saloon,  yet  with  the  fatuity  of  drunken 
ness  he  insisted  on  doing  so,  and  he  reeled  out  of  his  state 
room  and  through  the  cabin  and  up  the  stairs.  But  had  it 
not  been  for  Lamia's  strong  support  he  could  never  have 
reached  his  seat  at  their  table.  Lamia  was  like  Burns' 
Nanny : 

"A  handsome  jaud  and  strang," 

and  she  succeeded  in  setting  him  safe  in  his  seat,  where  he 
sat  bloated,  blear-eyed,  and  luckily  stupid,  instead  of  hilar 
ious  or  quarrelsome.  Every  one  at  table  noticed  his  con 
dition,  and — 

"What  a  pity !  What  a  pity !"  was  thought  or  whispered 
by  one  or  another. 

It  was  a  severe  ordeal  for  Lamia,  yet  the  trial  was  soft 
ened  by  the  thought  that  all  the  sympathies  of  the  company 
were  with  her,  all  the  condemnation  for  him. 

She  was  glad  at  last  when  she  succeeded  in  drawing  him 
away  from  the  table  to  the  privacy  of  their  stateroom,  where 
he  fell  upon  the  sofa  and  sank  into  the  heavy  sleep  of  in 
toxication. 

Lamia  felt  too  bitterly  humiliated  to  return  to  the  saloon 
or  go  on  deck,  so  she  remained  in  the  stateroom,  reading  a 
French  book  until  it  was  time  to  retire. 

Then  she  turned  into  her  berth,  leaving  the  stupefied 
inebriate  to  sleep  off  the  fumes  of  his  brandy,  lying  on  the 
sofa  dressed  as  he  was. 

Jennie  Montgomery  sat  on  deck  with  her  baby  on  her 
knees  until  the  fading  day  and  the  freshening  breeze  warned 
her  to  seek  shelter  in  the  cabin. 


16  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Then  she  took  her  child  to  her  stateroom,  where  soon 
after  both  were  rocked  to  sleep  by  the  rolling  of  the  ship. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  partly  overclouded,  and  with  but 
few  stars  shining. 

A  few  passengers,  all  men,  remained  on  deck  to  catch  the 
first  glimpse  of  land.  Before  midnight  the  man  on  the 
lookout  made  Cape  Clear  Lighthouse,  and  the  ship  ran 
along  the  coast  of  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  II 

FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER 

JENNIE  slept  late  that  morning,  and  was  finally  awakened 
by  the  cessation  of  the  motion  to  which  she  had  been  accus 
tomed  day  and  night  for  the  last  nine  days. 

She  started  up  and  looked  out. 

The  ship  was  at  anchor  in  the  fine  cove  of  Cork,  and  the 
window  of  her  stateroom  commanded  the  harbor.  She  knew 
there  was  a  crowd  of  people  on  deck,  but  she  felt  no  dis 
position  to  join  them;  so  after  she  had  washed  and 
dressed  her  child  and  herself  she  sat  down  and  waited  until 
the  kind  stewardess  brought  her  some  breakfast. 

"Well,  her*  we  are  at  Queenstown,"  said  the  good  woman, 
as  she  set  down  the  breakfast  tray. 

"Thank  you  for  bringing  my  breakfast,  Mrs.  Hopkins. 
How  long  will  we  remain  here?"  inquired  Jennie. 

"  Only  a  few  hours.  The  bride  and  groom — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Randolph  Hay,  you  know — have  got  off.  I  know  they  took 
their  tickets  for  Liverpool,  and  here  they  have  got  off  at 
Queenstown.  Now  they  will  go  to  London  by  way  of  Holy- 
head.^ 

"  Ah,"  said  Jennie,  only  because  she  felt  that  she  must  say 
something. 

"  Very  queer,  I  call  it,  for  gentlemen  and  ladies  to  sacri 
fice  their  passage  money  in  that  way.  But  when  people  have 
more  money  than  they  know  what  to  do  with  they  do  fling 
a  good  deal  away,  that's  certain." 

Jennie  began  to  drink  her  coffee  to  avoid  the  necessity  of 
speaking.  She  did  not  think  it  was  queer  that  the  pair 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  17 

should  have  left  the  steamer  at  Queenstown,  for  she  under 
stood  very  well  that  Kightly  Montgomery  dared  not  face  her 
father  at  Liverpool. 

"Are  they  really  off,  Mrs.  Hopkins?"  she  inquired  at  last. 
"Are  you  sure  they  have  actually  gone?" 

"Went  ashore  in  the  boat  half  an  hour  ago.  Took  all 
their  baggage  from  the  stateroom,  but  left  that  which  is  in 
the  hold — big  trunks  that  must  go  to  Liverpool,  where  they 
will  claim  them  at  the  custom  house,  when  they  themselves 
get  there  by  the  mail  route,"  replied  the  stewardess. 

This  was  a  great  relief  to  Jennie.  To  know  that  Kightly 
Montgomery  was  really  gone  from  the  steamer,  not  to  re 
turn,  gave  her  a  sense  of  freedom  and  security  which  she 
had  not  experienced  since  she  had  discovered  his  baleful 
presence  on  board.  She  felt  now  that  she  could  go  freely  on 
the  deck  and  take  her  child  there,  and  enjoy  all  the  delights 
of  the  voyage  across  the  channel  and  up  the  Mersey,  without 
the  fear  of  meeting  him  or  his  deceived  bride. 

"I  do  not  think,  Mrs.  Hopkins,  that  I  shall  trouble  any 
one  to  bring  my  meals  to  me  here  after  this.  I  shall  go  to 
the  public  table,"  she  said. 

"It  would  be  much  better  for  you,  my  dear,"  the  steward 
ess  replied. 

"And  now  that  I  have  finished  breakfast,  I  will  take  baby 
and  go  up  on  deck." 

"  That  will  be  better  for  you,  too,  my  dear.  Let  me  help 
you." 

"  Oh,  no.  I  am  quite  well  and  ever  so  much  stronger  than 
I  was  yesterday.  Besides,  the  ship  is  quite  still,  so  you  see 
I  can  walk  steadily  and  carry  baby." 

But  the  stewardess  resolutely  took  the  child  from  the 
arms  of  the  young  mother  and  carried  it  up  before  her. 

The  deck  was  a  crowded  and  busy  scene.  All  the  pas 
sengers  were  up  there,  gazing  out  upon  the  beautiful 
scenery.  But  crowded  as  it  was,  the  people  were  nearly  all 
standing,  so  it  was  easy  for  the  stewardess  to  find  a  good 
seat  for  the  mother,  to  whom,  when  comfortably  arranged, 
she  gave  the  child. 

Her  fellow  passengers  took  but  little  notice  of  Jennie 
now ;  they  were  too  much  interested  in  other  matters.  She 
sat  there  and  enjoyed  the  scene  until  the  ship  got  under 
way  again  and  stood  out  for  the  mouth  of  the  Mersey. 


18  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

This  last  day  on  board  Jennie  enjoyed  the  voyage  very 
much.  She  spent  nearly  the  whole  day  on  deck,  and  left  it 
with  reluctance  at  night  to  retire  to  her  stateroom.  That 
night  she  could  scarcely  sleep  for  the  excitement  of  an 
ticipating  her  meeting  with  her  father. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  up  and  out  on  deck  early  the  next 
morning. 

They  were  near  the  mouth  of  the  Mersey.  As  soon  as  she 
had  breakfasted  she  packed  up  all  her  effects,  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  go  on  shore  as  soon  as  the  ship  should  land. 

Then  she  sat  on  deck  to  watch  the  shores  until  at  last 
the  steamer  drew  near  to  the  great  English  seaport  and 
came  to  anchor. 

A  steam  tender  from  the  piers  was  rapidly  approaching 
the  Scorpio. 

A  great  crowd  of  people  were  on  board  the  tender,  appar 
ently  coming  to  meet  friends  on  the  Scorpio. 

Many  field  glasses  were  in  active  use  in  the  hands  of  voy 
agers  trying  to  make  out  the  persons  of  their  friends. 

Jennie  had  no  glass,  but  as  she  stood  bending  forward, 
straining  her  eyes  to  see,  a  gentleman  near  her  said: 

"Will  you  take  my  glass?" 

She  thanked  him,  and  took  it,  adjusted  the  lenses  to  her 
sight,  and  held  the  instrument  up  to  her  eyes. 

A  cry  of  joy  had  nearly  broken  from  her  lips.  She  saw 
her  father  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  coming  tender,  look 
ing  well  and  happy.  He,  too,  had  a  glass,  and  was  using  it. 
She  saw  that  he  had  seen  her;  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
waved  it  to  her.  She  waved  her  hands. 

The  tender  was  drawing  very  near,  and  now  came  a  gen 
eral  waving  of  handkerchiefs  in  salutation  from  the  passen 
gers  on  both  steamers. 

In  another  minute  the  tender  was  alongside,  the  gang 
plank  thrown  down,  and  the  rush  of  friends  to  meet  each 
other  made  a  joyous  confusion. 

Jennie  found  herself  in  her  father's  arms,  scarcely  know 
ing  how  she  got  there  in  such  a  crowd  and  confusion. 

"My  daughter!  my  daughter!  welcome!  welcome!  wel 
come  !  welcome  to  my  heart !"  the  father  cried,  in  a  break 
ing,  choking  voice,  as  he  pressed  her  fondly  to  his  breast. 

"  My  own  beloved  father  !  Oh,  thank  the  Lord — thank 
the  Lord,  that  I  see  you  again !  And  my  mother ! — my 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  19 

darling  mother! — how  is  she?"  cried  Jennie,  sobbing  for 

i°y- 

"Well,  my  dearest,  well,  thank  Heaven !  Sends  fondest 
love  to  you,  my  child,  and  waits  your  return  with  a  joyful 
heart." 

"  Oh !  how  have  I  deserved  this  love  and  tenderness,  this 
divine  compassion  and  forgiveness  ?  Oh !  my  father,  I 
ought  to  fall — not  on  your  neck — but  at  your  feet,  and  say 
— what  I  feel !  what  I  feel ! — 'Father,  I  have  sinned  against 
Heaven,  and  in  thy  sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 
called  thy'  child." 

"Hush  !  my  darling,  hush  !  We  will  talk  later.  Let  us  go 
away  from  here  as  soon  as  possible.  Where  is  your  babe, 
Jennie?" 

"In  my  stateroom,  dear  father,  fast  asleep.  Will  you 
come  down  with  me  and  see  her?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

The  father  and  daughter  struggled  through  the  pressing 
crowd,  and  made  their  way  slowly  and  with  difficulty  down 
into  the  cabin,  which  was  now  all  "upside  down"  with 
ladies  and  ladies'  maids,  and  gentlemen  and  valets,  stewards 
and  stewardesses,  getting  together  their  "traps"  and  mak 
ing  ready  to  go  on  shore. 

Jennie  took  her  father  directly  to  her  stateroom,  where 
the  pretty  babe  lay  sleeping  on  the  lower  berth. 

Jennie  lifted  the  babe  and  placed  it  in  her  father's  arms. 

The  minister  received  the  child,  raised  his  eyes,  and 
solemnly  invoked  God's  blessing  on  it,  then  stooped  and 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  its  brow.  Finally  he  returned  the  babe 
to  its  mother,  saying: 

"Wrap  her  up,  my  dear.  We  must  hurry,  or  we  shall 
miss  the  first  return  trip  of  the  tender  and  have  to  wait  for 
the  second,  which  would  cause  us  to  lose  our  train." 

Jennie  quickly  folded  the  baby  in  the  warm  white  cloak 
and  hood  which  had  been  given  her  by  the  Duncan  children. 

"Now  I  will  take  her  again  and  carry  her  for  you.  Do 
you  take  up  your  hand-bag  and  parasol.  I  will  speak  to 
have  the  other  things  brought  after  us,"  said  Mr.  Campbell, 
as  he  led  the  way  to  the  deck,  carrying  the  babe,  and  fol 
lowed  by  his  daughter. 

The  passengers  had  all  left  the  steamer. 

Men  were  carrying  baggage  on  board  the  tender.     Mr. 


20  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Campbell  spoke  to  one  of  them,  directing  him  to  the  state 
room  of  his  daughter.  Then,  holding  the  babe  on  one  arm, 
he  gave  the  other  to  Jennie,  and  led  her  across  the  gang 
plank  and  on  board  the  tender,  where  by  this  time  all  the 
passengers  were  gathered. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  tender  put  off  from  the  ship  and 
steamed  to  the  piers,  where  she  soon  arrived.  The  pas 
sengers  swarmed  out. 

Mr.  Campbell  called  a  cab,  put  his  daughter  and  her 
child  into  it,  followed  them  and  gave  the  order:  To  the 
Lime  Street  Railway  Station. 

When  they  reached  the  place  the  minister  stopped  the 
cab,  got  out  and  took  the  babe  from  her  mother's  arms, 
and  led  the  way  into  a  second-class  waiting-room. 

"You  will  stay  here,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "while  I  go  back 
to  the  custom  house  and  get  your  baggage  through.  You 
will  not  mind?" 

"Oh,  no,  dearest  father.  I  shall  not  mind  anything,  ex 
cept  missing  the  sight  of  your  dear  face,  even  for  a  minute. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  never  bear  to  lose  sight  of  you 
again." 

"I  shall  come  back  as  soon  as  possible,  my  dear,"  said  the 
minister;  and  he  found  for  her  a  comfortable  seat,  placed 
the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  so  left  her  in  the  waiting-room. 

Jennie  sat  there  without  feeling  the  time  pass  wearily, 
after  all ;  her  mind  was  too  full  of  delightful  anticipations 
of  homegoing. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed,  and  then  her  father  came  hurry 
ing  in. 

"It  is  all  done,  my  dear.  Your  trunks  are  rescued  from 
the  custom  house  and  deposited  on  the  train,  and  now  we 
have  five  minutes  left  in  which  to  take  some  refreshments, 
if  you  would  like,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"I  want  nothing,  dear  papa,  for  I  have  not  very  long  since 
breakfasted.  But  you  ?"  she  inquired. 

"No,  dear;  nothing  for  me.  And  now,  my  dear  child,  I 
have  at  length  found  breathing  space  in  this  hurry  and  con 
fusion  to  ask  about  your  husband.  You  did  not  name  him 
at  all  in  your  letter,  from  which  I  argued  ill;  and  if  there 
had  been  time,  I  should  have  written  to  you  for  some  ex 
planation  ;  but  I  knew  that  you  were  then  to  sail  in  a  few 
days,  and  that  you  would  reach  Liverpool  before  my  letter 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  21 

could  get  to  New  York.  Now,  my  dear,  I  must  ask  you 
some  very  serious  questions." 

"Yes,  papa." 

"How  is  it  that  you,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  the  wife  of  an  ex-captain  in  her 
majesty's  army,  should  have  been  confined  in  the  charity 
ward  of  a  public  hospital  ?" 

Jennie  shuddered,  but  did  not  answer. 

"How  was  it  that  you  had  to  be  indebted  to  alms  for  your 
outfit  and  passage  to  this  country  ?  Why  did  you  not  men 
tion  your  husband's  name  in  your  letter  to  me  ?  Why  are 
you  here  alone  ?  Where  is  your  husband  ?  Tell  me,  child. 
Do  not  fear  or  hesitate  to  tell  your  father  everything,"  he 
said,  tenderly  taking  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  papa,  your  goodness  goes  to  my  heart.  He  has  left 
me,  papa,"  she  said,  and  then  suddenly  lifting  her  soft,  dark 
eyes,  full  of  truth  and  candor,  to  meet  her  father's  pitying 
gaze,  she  added:  "But  do  not  mind  that,  dear  papa.  I  da 
not.  The  best  thing  he  ever  did  for  me  was  to  leave  me." 
•  "Jennie!" 

"Yes,  papa  dear,  it  was,  indeed.  I  am  not  saying  this 
from  pride  or  bravado,  but  because  it  is  the  very  truth  itself, 
that  the  best  thing  he  ever  did  for  me  was  to  leave  me." 

"Oh,  Jennie!" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"You  do  not  care  for  him,  then?" 

"No,  dear  papa." 

"And  yet,  my  child,  he  is  your  husband  still,"  said  the 
minister. 

"Unhappily,  yes;  but  he  has  left  me.  It  is  the  kindest 
act  of  his  life  toward  me." 

"And  you  never  wish  to  see  him  again,  Jennie?" 

"Never,  nor  to  hear  of  him.  I  am  happy  now  in  a  quiet 
way.  I  wish  for  nothing  better  on  earth  than  to  live  in  a 
quiet  way  at  the  darling  little  parsonage  with  you  and  dear 
est  mamma  and  my  blessed  baby." 

Suddenly  into  the  pathos  and  gravity  of  Jennie's  face 
came  a  ripple  of  humor  as  she  spoke  of  her  child  and  looked 
at  her  father. 

The  Eev.  James  Campbell  was  certainly  the  youngest 
grandfather  in  England,  if  not  in  Europe.  He  was  really 
but  thirty-eight  years  old,  and  might  have  been  taken  for 


22  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

a  mere  boy,  for  he  was  of  medium  height  and  of  slight  and 
elegant  form,  with  a  shapely  head,  pure,  clean-cut  classic 
features,  a  clear,  fair  complexion  and  dark  chestnut  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle,  cut  rather  short  and  slightly  curling. 
He  wore  neither  beard  nor  mustache.  His  dress  was  a 
clerical  suit  of  black  cloth  of  the  cheapest  quality  and  some 
what  threadbare;  but  it  perfectly  fitted  his  faultless  figure; 
but  his  linen  collar  and  cuffs  were  spotless  even  after  a 
railway  journey  in  the  second-class  cars  and  his  gloves  were 
neatly  mended. 

Altogether  he  looked  very  young  and  even  boyish,  as  we 
said,  though  he  was  in  middle  life  and  a  grandfather. 

But  for  the  close  resemblance  between  the  father  and 
daughter,  their  fellow  passengers  in  the  waiting-room  must 
have  taken  them  for  a  married  pair,  and  "o'er  young  to 
marry  also." 

"But  about  this  man,  Jennie,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she 
paused.  "Where  is  he  now?" 

"In  Ireland,  I  believe,  papa.  It  is  a  long  story  I  have  to 
tell  when  we  get  home.  And — here  is  our  train." 

The  whistle  sounded,  and  the  minister  took  his  grand 
child  from  his  daughter  and  carried  it,  followed  by  its 
mother,  to  their  seats  in  one  of  the  second-class  carriages. 


CHAPTEE  III 

HER  WELCOME  HOME 

THE  curate  and  his  daughter  found  themselves  in  a 
crowded  carriage  of  the  second  class,  on  the  Great  Northern 
express  train  from  Liverpool  to  Glasgow.  I  say  crowded, 
for  though  no  one  was  standing  up,  yet  many  of  the  pas 
sengers  had  well-grown  children  on  their  laps. 

Mr.  Campbell  and  Jennie  took  the  last  two  vacant  seats. 

"Give  me  the  baby  now,  papa  dear,"  said  the  little 
mother,  holding  out  her  arms,  as  soon  as  she  had  settled 
herself  in  her  seat. 

"No,  dear,  the  child  is  sleeping.  If  she  wakes  and  frets, 
I  will  hand  her  over  to  you;  otherwise  I  will  hold  her  to 
rest  you,"  replied  her  father. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  23 

Their  fellow  travelers  turned  and  looked  at  the  young 
grandfather  and  the  youthful  mother,  and  very  naturally 
drew  false  conclusions. 

They  were  mostly  of  the  class  who  listen,  comment  and 
observe. 

"It's  easy  to  see  that  is  a  young  married  pair,  with  their 
first  child/7  whispered  a  fat,  florid  country  woman,  with  one 
baby  sitting  on  her  knees  and  two  on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

""He  won't  be  quite  so  fond  of  loading  himself  down  with 
the  kids  when  there's  a  dozen  of  'em,  maybe,"  replied  her 
companion,  a  stout,  brown  woman  with  a  burden  of  two 
heavy  bundles  and  a  basket  on  and  about  her. 

The  minister  and  his  daughter  heard  every  word  of  this 
whispered  colloquy  with  slight  smiles  of  amusement;  but 
it  warned  them  that  they  could  not  indulge  in  any  very  con 
fidential  discourse  there,  where  every  whispered  word  could 
be  so  distinctly  heard. 

All  further  explanations  would  have  to  be  postponed  until 
they  should  reach  Medge  Parsonage.  And  that  was  a  hun 
dred  miles  off  as  yet.  Nothing  but  the  commonplaces  of 
conversation  could  pass  between  them. 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  "thank  you." 

"You  don't  feel  the  draught  from  that  window?" 

"No,  papa  dear."     Etcetera. 

Jennie  took  particular  pains  to  call  her  young  father 
"papa"  whenever  she  spoke  to  him. 

But  that  did  not  enlighten  their  companions  as  to  the 
true  relations  between  the  two.  They  thought  it  only  one 
more  silly  affectation  of  the  youthful  parents.  Many  vain 
young  mothers  called  their  husbands  "papa"  for  baby,  as 
many  proud  young  fathers  called  their  wives  "mamma"  also 
for  baby. 

So  merely  trivial  talk  passed  between  the  father  and 
daughter  until  the  train  blew  the  steam  whistle  and 
"slowed"  into  the  first  station  after  leaving  Liverpool, 
stopped  ten  seconds  and  sped  on  again. 

Jennie  had  not  seen  her  native  country  for  two  years,  and 
she  looked  out  at  the  vanishing  station  almost  with  the  curi 
osity  of  a  stranger,  and  then  exclaimed  with  a  look  of  aston 
ishment  : 

"Why,  papa !    That  was  Huton !" 


24  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Well,  my  dear!" 

Jennie  looked  at  her  father  in  amazement. 

"'What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?"  inquired  the  curate. 

"Matter?  Why,  papa,  matter  enough.  We  have  cer 
tainly  taken  the  wrong  train.  Huton  is  on  the  Great  North 
ern,  and  not  the  South  Eastern  Railroad.  This  is  not  the 
way  to  Medge." 

"But,  dear,  we  are  not  going  to  Medge." 

"Not  going  to  Medge?" 

"No,  my  dear." 

Jennie  stared. 

"I  also  have  something  to  tell  you  which  I  have  reserved 
until  now,"  said  the  minister  gravely. 

"What  is  it,  papa?  Oh,  what  is  it?"  demanded  the 
young  girl  in  sudden  alarm.  "You  said  my  dear  mother 
was  quite  well.  If  she  were  in  heaven,  you  might  say  with 
truth  she  was  quite  well ;  but  oh  !  how  could  I  bear  it !  Oh, 
how  could  I  bear  it !  Is  she  quite  well  in  this  world  ?" 

"Quite  well,  here  on  earth,  my  dear.    Compose  yourself." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing  to  alarm  you,  Jennie." 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"To  Haymore,  in  the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  where 
I  have  a  curacy." 

"To  Hay And  you  never  told  me!"  said  Jennie, 

aghast  with  astonishment.  All  her  life,  until  her  hasty 
marriage,  two  years  before,  she  had  lived  with  her  parents 
at  Medge.  She  considered  them  as  fixtures  to  that  spot. 
She  would  as  soon  have  expected  the  old  parish  church 
and  graveyard  to  be  plucked  up  by  the  roots  from  Medge 
and  transplanted  to  Haymore  as  to  have  her  father  and 
mother  removed  from  the  first  to  the  last  named  place. 
"  'Haymore  !'  "  she  said  to  herself — "  'Haymore  ! '  Surely 
that  was  the  name  of  the  manor  to  which  Kightly  Mont 
gomery  had  fallen  heir.  And  in  Yorkshire,  too.  It  must  be 
the  same  place !  She  and  her  father  were  going  there ! 
And — Kightly  Montgomery,  under  his  new  name,  and  with 
his  new  bride,  was  also  going  there.  The  first  as  the  lord 
of  the  manor,  the  second  as  pastor  of  the  parish.  What 
was  to  be  done?  They  must  surely  meet,  and  then?" 
Jennie  was  dumfounded  from  consternation. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  25 

"Why,  what  ails  van,  Jennie,  my  child?"  inquired  her 
father. 

She  found  her  tongue  at  last,  and  said,  because  she  did 
not  know  what  else  to  say: 

"You  never  told  me." 

"I  explained  that  I  reserved  the  information  for  our 
meeting/'  gently  replied  the  curate. 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  Haymore?"  was  her  next 
question. 

"About  twelve  weeks.  Not  quite  three  months.  But 
don't  look  so  horrified,  my  dear.  If  I  had  changed  my 
religion,  instead  of  having  changed  my  parish,  you  could 
scarcely  seem  more  confounded,"  said  the  curate,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"Oh,  papa  dear,  what  made  you  leave  dear  old  Hedge?" 
she  dolefully  inquired. 

"Necessity,  Jennie.    My  old  rector  died " 

"  Oh  !  Good  old  Dr.  Twomby !  Has  he  gone  ?"  exclaimed 
Jennie  in  a  tone  of  grief. 

"Yes,  dear — full  of  years  and  honors.  It  would  be  im 
pious  to  mourn  the  departure  of  so  sainted  a  man.  His 
successor  was  a  young  Oxonian,  who  gave  me  warning  and 
put  in  a  classmate  of  his  own  as  his  curate." 

"And  what  made  you  go  so  far — quite  from  the  south  to 
the  north  of  England?" 

"Again  necessity,  my  dear.  I  was  out  of  employment, 
and  your  mother  and  myself  were  living  in  cheap  lodgings 
in  the  village,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  Dr.  Orton — an 
old  friend  of  my  father,  who  had  heard  of  my  misfortune — 
inviting  me  to  come  with  my  wife  to  Haymore  and  take 
his  parish  and  occupy  his  parsonage  for  a  year,  during 
which  he  was  ordered  by  his  physician  to  travel  for  his 
health.  I  gratefully  accepted  the  offer." 

"And  how  do  you  like  it,  papa?" 

"Very  much,  my  dear.  The  rectory  is  a  beautiful  old 
house,  very  conveniently  fitted  with  all  modern  improve 
ments  and  very  comfortably  furnished.  The  house  is  cov 
ered  with  ivy  and  the  porches  with  climbing  plants.  There 
is  a  luxuriant  old  garden,  full  of  flowers  and  herbs  and 
all  kinds  of  fruits  and  vegetables  that  our  climate  will  grow, 
and  there  is  a  lawn  with  old  oak  trees." 


26  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"How  lovely!"  impulsively  exclaimed  Jennie.  But  then 
her  face  fell. 

"Yes,  it  is  lovely,"  assented  the  minister,  who  had  not 
noticed  the  change  in  his  child's  countenance.  "And  I  like 
it  so  well  that  I  shall  grieve  to  leave  it." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  sure  of  it  for  a  twelvemonth!"  ex 
claimed  Jennie,  eager  to  please  her  father,  yet  again  stop 
ping  short  at  the  sudden  memory  of  what  must  meet  him 
at  Haymore. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear.  I  am  not  sure  of  the  place  for  a 
month  even.  Orton  has  heart  disease,  and,  though  he  may 
live  for  months  or  years,  he  may  drop  dead  at  any  moment. 
He  may  be  dead  now.  And  in  such  a  case,  you  see,  the 
very  same  thing  that  happened  to  me  at  Hedge  would 
happen  again  at  Haymore." 

"How,  papa?" 

"If  Orton  should  die,  his  successor  would  turn  me  adrift, 
to  put  in  my  place  some  friend  of  his  own." 

"Who  has  the  appointing  of  the  incumbent?  The  bishop 
of  the  diocese  or  some  nobleman?" 

"Neither.  The  living  is  attached  to  Haymore  Manor,  and 
is  in  the  gift  of  the  new  squire." 

In  the  gift  of  the  new  squire,  and  that  squire  Kightly 
Montgomery  under  a  new  name ! 

The  thought  of  this  complication  turned  Jennie  pale.  In 
her  dismay  and  confusion,  she  could  settle  upon  but  one 
course — the  course  she  had  thought  of  all  along — to  tell  her 
father  everything;  every  single  fact  she  knew  concerning 
Kightly  Montgomery. 

The  minister  was  now  watching  her  curiously,  anxiously. 

To  cover  her  distress,  she  asked  the  first  question  that 
came  into  her  head,  and  not  an  irrelevant  one : 

"Were  the  terms  favorable  upon  which  you  agreed  to 
take  this  parish  for  a  year,  papa?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  The  living  is  worth  six  hun 
dred  pounds  a  year,  and  Orton  gives  me  two  hundred,  with 
the  use  of  the  rectory." 

"And  you  do  all  the  work  for  one-third  of  the  salary?" 

"Yes,  my  dear;  and  I  am  very  glad  to  do  it.  And  there 
are  hundreds  of  capable  clergymen  in  England  who  would 
be  glad  to  do  it  for  one-sixth  of  the  salary." 

Then  Mr.  Campbell  suddenly  became  conscious  that  he 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  27 

was  talking  too  freely  of  private  matters  in  a  crowded  car. 
He  looked  about  him.  But  every  one  seemed  too  sleepy  to 
attend  to  him. 

The  woman  with  the  three  babies  was  sound  asleep,  as 
was  her  brood,  and  the  group  reminded  the  curate  of  a  fat, 
cozy  pussy  cat  and  her  kittens. 

The  woman  with  the  bundles  was  nodding,  catching  her 
self,  gripping  her  parcels  and  nodding  again. 

These  were  the  nearest  passengers  to  the  curate  and  his 
daughter,  and  had  evidently  not  been  listening  to  the  con 
versation. 

The  express  had  been  running  on  a  long  while  without 
stopping,  but  now,  about  noon,  the  steam  horn  shrieked 
again  and  the  train  drew  into  the  station  of  a  large  manu 
facturing  town,  stopped  two  minutes  and  roared  on  again. 

The  swift  motion  of  the  train,  that  sent  nearly  all  the 
grown  people  to  nodding  and  all  the  children  to  sleep, 
seemed  to  have  so  overpowered  the  nerves  of  Jennie's  young 
baby  as  to  steep  it  into  a  deep  stupor. 

The  little  mother  at  length  grew  anxious. 

"Don't  you  think  baby  sleeps  too  soundly,  papa?"  she 
inquired  uneasily. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear!  She  is  all  right.  She  will  sleep 
until  we  get  home  and  then  wake  up  as  bright  as  a  daisy." 

"Ten  minutes  for  refreshments!"  shouted  the  guard  at 
the  window,  as  he  climbed  along  on  the  outside  of  the  car 
riage,  while  the  train  drew  into  the  station  of  another  large 
town. 

"Will  you  get  out,  Jennie?"  inquired  her  father. 

"No  papa  dear,  I  would  much  rather  not/'  she  answered. 

"Then  take  the  baby  while  I  go,"  he  said,  carefully 
placing  the  little  one  on  her  lap  within  her  arms. 

"Now,  what  shall  I  bring  you,  dear?"  he  next  inquired. 

"A  cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit,  papa,  nothing  more,"  replied 
Jennie,  who  remembered  the  slender  purse  of  the  curate, 
who  could  ill  afford  the  journey  to  Liverpool  and  back  with 
his  daughter. 

She  had  ten  pounds  left  of  her  own,  but  did  not  dare  to 
offer  them  to  her  father,  whose  very  poverty  made  him  sen 
sitive.  She  meant,  however,  when  she  should  reach  the  par 
sonage,  to  put  that  little  fund,  through  her  mother's  agency, 
into  the  general  household  expenses. 


28  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Mr.  Campbell  left  the  carriage  and  went  across  to  the 
refreshment  rooms. 

Jennie's  fellow  passengers  of  the  second  class  did  not 
leave  their  seats,  but  took  out  luncheon  baskets,  and  soon  the 
air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  popping  ginger  beer  or  ale  or 
porter  bottles,  while  bread  and  cheese  and  beef  were  laid  out 
on  laps  covered  with  brown  wrapping  paper  for  a  tablecloth. 

The  woman  with  the  babies  and  the  woman  with  the  bun 
dles,  who  sat  opposite  to  Jennie  and  seemed  to  be  friends, 
drew  the  cork  of  brown  stout — one  holding  the  bottle,  and 
the  other  pulling  the  screw  with  all  her  might. 

Then  the  mother  filled  a  little  thick  glass  tumbler  with 
the  foaming  porter  and  held  it  to  Jennie,  saying  kindly : 

" Drink  it,  dearie.  It'll  do  'ee  good;  'specially  as  ye're 
nussing  a  young  babe." 

Jennie,  touched  by  the  kindness,  smiled  her  sweetest  and 
thanked  her  neighbor,  explaining  that  her  heart  was  weak 
and  that  she  could  not  bear  strong  porter. 

"Then  I  hope  your  good  man  will  bring  'ee  some  light 
wine,"  replied  the  woman. 

"The  gentleman  with  me  is  my  father,"  said  Jennie,  glad 
to  make  this  explanation. 

"Your  fey And  the  grandfeyther  o'  the  bairn?" 

exclaimed  the  woman,  opening  her  eyes  with  astonish 
ment. 

"Yes,"  said  Jennie. 

"Well,  it's  wonderful !  He  didn't  look  a  day  over  twenty- 
five.  Do  he,  now,  M'riah  ?"  she  said,  appealing  to  her  com 
panion  of  the  bundles. 

"He  don't  that,"  replied  the- latter. 

But  here  the  three  babies  became  clamorous  for  some 
thing  to  eat,  and  the  two  women  turned  their  attention  to 
them.  And  though  this  party  had  been  nibbling  cake  or 
candy,  more  or  less,  during  the  whole  journey,  as  is  too 
much  the  custom  of  their  class,  yet  now  they  all  ate  as  if 
they  had  fasted  since  breakfast. 

Mr.  Campbell  reappeared  with  a  little  tray  in  his  hand, 
on  which  was  arranged  a  cup  of  tea,  a  small  plate  of  cream 
toast,  and  another  plate  with  the  wing  of  a  roast  chicken, 
which  he  placed  on  the  vacant  seat,  while  he  relieved  Jennie 
of  her  sleeping  babe. 

"Oh,  dear  papa,  to  think  that  you  should  remember  my 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  29 

taste  for  milk  toast  and  chicken,  and  bring  them  to  me! 
This  is  killing  the  fatted  calf,  indeed,"  said  Jennie  grate 
fully  as  she  took  the  tray  upon  her  lap. 

Mr.  Campbell  then  sat  down  on  the  vacant  seat  with  the 
baby  in  his  arms ;  but  he  made  no  reply  except  by  a  smile. 

The  train  started. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Jennie,  "we  are  carrying  off  the  crock 
ery  ware!" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  father.  "The  return  train  will 
bring  them  back  and  leave  them  at  this  station.  Such  is  the 
arrangement." 

"Then  my  mind  is  easy.  Did  you  get  anything  to  eat, 
papa  dear?" 

"Oh,  yes;  a  slice  of  cold  beef  and  a  cup  of  coffee  while 
they  were  fixing  up  your  tray." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Jennie;  and  she  gave  her  attention  to 
her  tray,  and  exhibited  such  a  healthy  appetite  that  not  a 
crumb  or  a  drop  was  left  when  she  finished  her  meal  and 
put  the  little  service  under  the  seat. 

The  train  rushed  on,  nor  stopped  again  until  nearly  sun 
set,  when  it  ran  in  at  the  station  of  York. 

Here  the  father  and  daughter  got  off  to  take  a  branch  line 
to  Chuxton,  the  nearest  railway  station  to  Haymore. 

Willingly  would  the  curate  have  stayed  here  overnight  to 
show  his  daughter  the  great  cathedral  city,  which  she  had 
never  seen,  had  not  two  good  reasons  prevented — first,  his 
poverty,  which  could  not  bear  the  expense;  secondly,  the 
anxiety  of  the  wife  and  mother  at  home  to  see  her  long-ab 
sent  daughter,  which,  he  knew,  could  not  tolerate  the  delay. 

"Some  day  we  will  return  to  see  this  ancient  city,  my 
dear ;  but  to-day  we  must  hurry  home  to  your  mother,"  he 
said  as  he  led  her  into  the  waiting-room  to  stay  till  their 
train  should  be  ready  to  start. 

There  the  "little  angel"  awoke  in  no  angelic  temper,  but 
impatient  to  be  nursed. 

Jennie  took  her  into  the  dressing-room,  where  she  at 
tended  to  all  her  needs,  and  presently  brought  her  back 
smiling  and  good-natured  to  the  arms  of  her  grandfather. 

"I  foresee  what  an  idol  the  grandmother  will  make  of 
this  little  one,"  he  said  as  he  received  her. 

"The  idea  of  calling  my  pretty  young  mamma  a  grand- 


30  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

mother !    It  is  well  she  is  not  a  woman  of  fashion,  or  she 
would  he  disgusted,"  said  Jennie,  laughing. 

"As  it  is,  she  will  he  delighted/'  said  her  father,  looking 
curiously  at  his  child.    He  was  very  pleasantly  disappointed 
in  Jennie.     He  had  feared  to  meet  in  her  a  heartbroken 
woman— a  forsaken  wife,  whom  none  of  her  "old  blessings" 
of  father  and  mother,  home  and  family  affection,  could  pos 
sibly  console— and  he  found  a  daughter  who  had  let  go  the 
unfaithful  husband  and  comforted  herself  with  her  unot- 
fending  babe,  and  meant  even  to  enjoy  herself  with  her  v 
parents  at  the  parsonage  in  the  performance  of  every  filial, 
maternal  and  domestic  duty.    And  that  this  disposition  was 
not  forced,  but  was  natural,  might  be  seen  and  heard  in  her 
contented  countenance  and  frequent  laugh.     Even  now,  it 
the  thought  would  recur  that  the  curate's  temporary  parish 
lay  in  the  manor  of  Haymore,  and  the  reigning  or  pretend 
ing  squire  was  Kightly  Montgomery,  still,  upon  later  re 
flection,  she  felt  so  much  confidence  in  the  wisdom  and 
goodness  of  her  father  that  she  dismissed  all  dread  of  any 
fatal  or  even  serious  result  of  his  meeting  with  her  husband. 
And  for  one  circumstance  Jennie  felt  glad  and  grateful, 
namely,  for  the  change  of  residence  from  Medge,  where 
everybody  had  known  her  from  childhood,  and  might,  there 
fore,  wonder  and  ask  questions  why  the  curate's  married 
daughter  should  return  home  to  live  without  her  husband 

since  it  was  clear  from  her  dress  that  she  was  not  a 

widow.  , 

No  such  wonder  could  be  excited  at  Haymore ;  no  sue 
questions  asked.     The  people  were  strangers.     They  had 
taken  their  temporary  pastor  upon  well-merited  trust,  and 
his  family  history  was  unknown  to  them. 

As  for  the  other  matter  connected  with  Kightly  Mont 
gomery,  she  would  tell  her  father  everything,  and  he  would 
know  what  to  do. 

Kightly  Montgomery,  she  knew,  never  by  any  chance  en 
tered  a  church,  so  her  father  would  never  see  him  there 

As  for  the  curate,  when  she  should  have  told  him  who 
the  new  squire  really  was,  it  was  unlikely  that  Mr.  Camp 
bell  would  feel  disposed  to  make  a  clerical  call  at  the  manor 

house.  ,,. 

Under  the  divine  Providence  she  would  leave  everything 

to  her  father. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  31 

While  the  father  and  daughter  were  still  chatting  pleas 
antly  together  a  door  was  flung  open  and  a  voice  was  heard 
announcing : 

"Train  for  Chuxton." 

"Come,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Campbell,  rising  with  the 
baby  on  his  arms  and  crossing  the  room,  followed  by  Jennie. 

They  went  out  to  the  train  and  entered  the  second-class 
carriage. 

In  five  minutes,  after  they  were  comfortably  seated,  the 
train  was  off,  speeding  away  from  the  old  cathedral  city  in 
a  northerly  direction  across  the  moors. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  set,  though  it  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
horizon.  Jennie  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  vastness  of  the  brown 
moor  that  stretched,  or  rather  rolled,  away  in  all  directions 
to  meet  the  horizon.  It  reminded  her  of  the  sea.  It  seemed 
a  boundless  ocean,  enchanted  into  stillness;  for  not  a  breath 
of  air  disturbed  the  motionless  heather,  and  not  a  hamlet  or 
a  farmhouse  broke  the  illusion.  No  doubt  there  were  farms 
and  villages  not  far  off,  but  they  were  in  the  hollows,  out 
of  sight. 

Presently  Jennie  turned  from  the  window  to  look  at  her 
baby.  The  little  one  was  fast  asleep  again;  so  was  the 
curate,  who  had  been  traveling  all  night  and  all  day,  for 
twenty-four  hours.  He  had  his  arms  so  securely  wound 
around  the  sleeping  child  that  Jennie  forbore  to  take  it 
away,  lest  she  should  disturb  their  rest. 

The  sun  set;  twilight  faded;  yet  the  train  sped  on  over 
the  moor. 

Presently  Jennie  observed  twinkling  lights  before  her 
that  seemed  to  be  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  As  the  train 
sped  on  toward  those  lights  she  recognized  them  as  belong 
ing  to  a  station. 

Then  the  steam  horn  shrieked  and  waked  up  all  the  pas 
sengers,  and  the  guide  shouted : 

"Chuxton!" 

"Here  we  are,  my  dear/'  said  the  curate,  waking  up  as 
the  train  stopped. 

There  were  but  few  passengers  who  got  out  here,  and 
there  were  all  sorts  of  conveyances  waiting  for  them,  from 
donkey  carts  to  fine  coaches. 

"How  far  are  we  from  Haymore,  papa?"  inquired  Jen- 


32  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

nie  as  her  father  led  her  from  the  train  to  the  waiting-room 
of  the  station. 

"Ten  miles,  my  dear." 

"Is  there  a  stagecoach  to  Haymore?" 

"No,  my  dear,  but  I  took  the  precaution  to  engage  the 
fly  from  the  Red  Fox  to  meet  us  here  for  this  train.  If  it 
has  not  come  yet — and  I  do  not  see  it — it  will  be  here  soon." 

"How  much  expense  I  put  you  to,  dear  papa !» 

"Tut,  tut!  there  is  a  time  to  spend!  Whether  there  is 
a  time  to  save  or  not,  while  there  is  the  least  need  any 
where  of  spending,  I  really  do  not  know !  There's  the  fly 
now !"  exclaimed  the  curate,  at  the  sound  of  wheels,  sud 
denly  breaking  off  in  his  discourse  and  going  to  the  door. 

"Well,  Nahum,  you  are  on  time,  I  see!"  said  Mr.  Camp 
bell,  speaking  cheerfully  to  some  one  in  the  outer  darkness. 

"Ay,  bound  to  be,  sir,  when  your  reverence  had  bespoken 
the  kerridge,"  answered  a  buoyant  voice  from  the  shades. 

"Come,  my  dear !  But,  Nahum,  perhaps  the  mule  wants 
food  and  water  ?" 

"Not  she,  air!  She  had  her  oats  and  her  water  and  her 
mug  of  ale  !  You'd  no  believe,  sir,  how  that  lass  loves  ale ! 
So,  with  your  leave,  I'll  e'en  give  her  another  mug  of  that 
same,  whiles  she  rests  five  minutes.  No  longer,  your  rever 
ence.  No  longer,  sir." 

"Quite-  right.    Let  us  know  when  you  are  ready." 

The  curate  sat  down  by  his  daughter. 

In  something  less  than  five  minutes  the  voice  of  the  hos 
tler  was  heard,  calling: 

"All  right  now,  sir.  Miss  Nancy  and  me  is  at  your  serv 
ice,  sir." 

"Miss  Nancy?"  inquired  Jennie  as  she  arose  and  took 
her  father's  arm. 

"  This  mule,  of  course.  Nahum  is  an  oddity !  His  avoca 
tions  are  multiform.  He  is  coachman,  groom,  hostler  and 
handy  man  generally  at  the  Red  Fox,"  Mr.  Campbell  ex 
plained  as  he  took  his  daughter  out  to  the  carriage. 

It  was  not  a  "fly"  at  all,  though  they  called  it  so:  it  was 
a  strong,  snug  carryall,  covered  all  over  with  a  black  tarpau 
lin,  except  the  front,  which  was  open.  It  was  drawn  by  a 
stout  mule. 

Mr.  Campbell  put  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  the  shel 
tered  back  seat  and  placed  himself  beside  the  coachman  in 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  33 

the  front.     And  the  carryall  rolled  away  over  the  murky 
moor  until  it  seemed  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness. 

But  "Miss  Nancy"  knew  the  road,  and,  if  she  had  not 
known  it,  her  driver  did.    So  they  went  on  in  safety. 


CHAPTER  IV 

STARTLING  NEWS 

NAHUM  opened  conversation  with  Mr.  Campbell. 

"The  last  of  the  workmen  have  left  to-day,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  The  workmen  ?  Oh,  the  decorators  and  upholsterers 
who  were  fitting  up  Haymore  Hold  for  the  young  squire  and 
his  bride." 

"Yes,  sir.  All  is  finished  in  the  very  latest  style,  and 
with  all  the  modernest  improvements.  And  they  do  say  as 
there  is  not  a  place  in  the  North  Eiding  aiquil  to  it  for 
magnificence  and  splendiferousness  !  They  do  that !" 

"Ah,  when  are  the  young  pair  expected?" 

"'That  I  can't  jest  tell  you,  sir.  But  Mr.  Isaiah  Prowt, 
the  bailiff,  do  say  as  he  is  to  receive  a  week's  notice  of  their 
arrival,  so  as  to  have  the  triumphanting  arches  put  up  all 
along  the  road  leading  into  the  village  and  the  avenue  from 
the  park  gate  to  the  hall." 

"  That  will  make  a  fine  display,  Nahum,  but  an  expensive 
one.  However,  I  suppose  it  will  give  pleasure  to  the 
people." 

"It  will  that,  your  reverence.  And  that  is  not  all !  They 
are  to  have  tents  and  markees  and  pavilions  all  over  the 
lawn,  and  a  great  outdoor  gala  for  all  the  tenants,  and  even 
the  villagers  who  are  not  tenants,  and  for  the  whole  neigh 
borhood;  in  fact,  men,  women,  and  children,  sir,  are  to  be 
feasted  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  have  dances  and  games, 
and  all  that,  all  day  long,  and  at  night  fireworks !  All  at 
the  young  squire's  expense." 

"It  will  be  a  boon  to  the  village,  where  there  is  never 
even  a  market  day  or  a  fair." 

"It  will  that,  sir.  Why,  the  people  have  gone  stark,  star 
ing  mad  over  the  very  thought  of  it,  though  they  don't  the 
least  know  when  it  is  to  come  off.  But  they  are  looking 


34  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

forrid  to  it.  For,  as  you  say,  sir,  they  never  have  any 
thing  here.  Chuxton  is  the  market  town,  and  the  fairs  go 
there  on  market  day." 

"  So  they  never  have  a  public  fete  unless  it  is  given  by  the 
lord  of  the  manor  on  the  occasion  of  a  marriage,  or  a  com 
ing  of  age  in  the  family?" 

"And  never  then,  up  to  this  toime.  Such  a  day  as  this 
coming  on  has  never  been  seen  at  Haymore  in  the  memory 
of  man.  The  old  squires  never  did  nothing  like  it." 

"No?    Why  was  that?" 

"Oh,  they  kept  themselves  aloof.  They  never  thought 
about  their  tenants,  except  to  keep  them  pretty  strict  and 
punctuous  in  the  payment  of  the  rents.  Otherwise  they 
looked  down  on  them  as  dirt  underneath  of  their  feet." 

"Let  us  hope,  from  the  present  signs,  that  the  new  squire 
will  be  more  genial  and  benevolent." 

"He  will  that,  sir.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  And  no 
doubt  he  will  have  the  old  church  repaired.  And  you'll  do 
your  part  to  welcome  the  bridal  pair.  You'll  have  the 
parish  school  children  drilled  to  stand  aich  side  the  road  by 
which  they  come  and  sing  songs  and  throw  flowers?  And 
you'll  have  the  bellringers  to  ring  out  joyful  peals  of 
music  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,  with  all  my  heart.  It  falls  in  the 
way  of  my  office  to  see  that  the  parish  school  children  and 
the  bellringers  take  their  part  and  do  their  duties  properly 
in  the  ceremonial  reception  of  the  bridal  couple,"  cordially 
responded  Mr.  Campbell. 

No  more  was  said  just  then. 

Jennie  was  aghast.  She  had  not  thought  that  Kightly 
Montgomery  would  bring  his  deceived  bride,  who  was  not  a 
lawful  wife,  to  England  so  soon  after  his  rencontre  with  her 
self  on  shipboard.  When  he  had  left  the  steamer  at  Queens- 
town,  to  avoid  meeting  her  father  at  Liverpool,  she  had 
supposed  that  he  would  go  to  the  continent  for  his  bridal 
tour,  and  return  later  to  England.  But  instead  of  doing  so 
he  had  written  a  letter  from  Queenstowrn,  on  the  morning 
of  his  arrival  there,  to  announce  his  intention  of  coming  to 
Haymore.  This  letter  he  must  have  posted  on  the  same 
morning,  so  that  it  came  over  land  and  sea  by  the  shorter 
route  of  the  Irish  mail,  and  reached  its  destination  at  Hay- 
more  before  she,  by  the  longer  way  of  the  channel,  arrived 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  35 

at  Liverpool.  But  why  did  he  think  of  coming  to  Haymore 
at  this  time? 

A  little  reflection  told  her  why.  She  tried  to  put  herself 
in  Kightly  Montgomery's  place  and  think  out  his  motives. 
Then  she  understood. 

Kightly  Montgomery  knew  certainly  that  Jennie  had 
gone  home  to  her  father's,  but  he  believed,  erroneously,  that 
she  had  gone  to  him  in  his  old  parish  at  Medge,  in  Hantz. 
where  the  curate  had  lived  and  preached  for  twenty  years 
past,  and  where  he  was  likely  to  continue  to  minister  for 
forty  years  to  come. 

Nearly  the  whole  length  of  England  lay  between  Medge, 
on  the  south  coast  of  Hantz,  and  Haymore,  in  the  North 
Riding  of  Yorkshire.  He  might,  therefore,  go  safely  to  his 
manor  house  without  fear  of  being  troubled  by  Jennie  or 
her  people.  He  could  not  dream,  of  course,  that  the  Rev. 
James  Campbell  had  left  Medge  to  become  the  pastor  of  the 
parish  of  Haymore,  where  his  daughter  would  be  with  him ; 
else  he  would  as  soon  have  rushed  into  a  burning  furnace 
as  to  come  to  Yorkshire. 

So  far  Jennie  reasoned  out  correctly  the  meaning  of 
Kightly  Montgomery's  course.  But  there  was  more  cause 
for  his  false  sense  of  security  than  she  knew  anything  about. 

Kightly  Montgomery  had  not  the  least  idea  that  Jennie, 
by  putting  odds  and  ends  of  facts  and  probabilities  together, 
had  made  herself  acquainted  with  his  fraudulent  claim  to 
the  name  of  Hay,  and  to  the  inheritance  of  Haymore.  He 
thought  she  knew  nothing  beyond  the  fact  of  his  second 
marriage,  not  even  the  name  under  which  he  married,  and 
that,  therefore,  she  could  not  know  how  or  where  to  seek 
him,  even  if  she  were  disposed  to  do  so,  which  he  utterly 
disbelieved.  With  his  wronged  wife  at  the  extreme  south  of 
England,  and  in  ignorance  of  his  present  name  and  resi 
dence,  he  felt  perfectly  safe  in  coming  to  Haymore  in  the 
north,  to  gratify  his  pride  and  vanity  by  a  triumphant 
entry,  with  his  queenly  and  beautiful  bride,  into  the  village 
and  on  to  the  manor  house. 

He  little  dreamed  of  the  dread  Nemesis  awaiting  him 
there. 

"Jennie,  my  darling,  why  are  you  so  silent?"  inquired 
Mr.  Campbell,  breaking  in  upon  his  daughter's  reverie. 

"I  have  been  listening,  papa." 


36  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"But  you  have  not  heard  anything  for  the  last  half  hour. 
We  have  not  been  talking." 

"I  listened  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  while  you  did 
talk,  papa." 

"And  you  have  heard  that  in  a  few  days,  perhaps,  we 
are  going  to  have  grand  doings  at  Haymore  to  welcome  the 
young  squire  and  his  bride." 

"Yes,  papa  dear,  I  heard  all  that." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  think  it  will  be  a  very  exciting  time,"  evasively  replied 
the  young  woman. 

"Jennie,  my  dear,  you  speak  so  faintly.    Are  you  tired?" 

"Yes,  papa  dear — rather  tired." 

"Take  courage,  then,  for  we  are  near  home,  where  the 
mother  is  waiting  to  welcome  us  with  a  bright  fire  and  a 
nice  tea  table,"  said  the  curate. 

"Yes,  papa.  Don't  mind  me,  dear.  It  is  a  healthful 
weariness  that  will  make  me  sleep  all  the  better,"  replied 
Jennie. 

But  the  last  words  were  fairly  jolted  out  of  her  mouth, 
for  the  carryall  was  now  ascending  a  very  steep  hill. 

The  curate  turned  his  head  again  to  speak  to  his  daugh 
ter. 

"We  are  entering  the  village,  dear,  and  the  church  and 
parsonage  are  at  this  end.  You  can  see  nothing  from  where 
you  sit  behind  there.  If  you  could  you  would  see  a  stony 
road,  with  paving  stones  set  sharp  edge  up  to  make  a  hold 
for  horses'  hoofs,  otherwise  they  could  scarcely  climb  it. 
And  you  would  see  high  stone  walls  on  each  side  of  the  road, 
with  plantations  behind  them.  These  walls,  my  dear,  in 
close  Haymore  Park,  through  a  portion  of  which  this  road 
runs.  On  the  top  of  the  hill  is  Haymore  Old  Church  and 
Rectory.  There  is  our  home  at  present.  There  is  an  old 
graveyard  around  the  church,  and  an  old  garden  around 
the  rectory.  All  this  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  village,  which 
stretches  on  both  sides  of  the  road  over  the  hill  and  down 
the  declivity.  All  around  the  manor,  the  church  and  the 
village  roll  the  everlasting  moors  from  the  center  to  the 
circumference.  There,  my  dear,  you  have  a  picture  of  our 
home,  though  you  cannot  see  it." 

"I  see  it  in  my  mind's  eye,  papa." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  37 

All  this  time  the  mule  was  toiling  slowly,  painfully  up 
the  steep  ascent. 

Jennie,  straining  her  eyes  to  look  forward,  saw  nothing 
for  a  while  but  the  black  forms  of  her  father  and  the  driver 
against  the  darkness,  but  presently  fitful  lights  glanced  in 
sight  and  disappeared.  After  a  while  they  grew  more  steady 
and  stationary,  and  Jennie  recognized 

"The  lights  in  the  village," 

though  they  were  still  distant  before  her. 

"Here  we  are/'  said  the  curate  blithely  as  the  panting 
mule  drew  up  before  a  gate  in  a  wall,  all  covered  with  ivy 
or  some  other  creeping  plant,  Jennie  could  not  see  what. 

Beyond  the  gate  and  the  wall  was  the  front  of  a  two- 
story,  double  stone  house,  like  the  wall,  all  covered  with 
creeping  vines,  but  with  a  bright  firelight  and  lamplight 
gleaming  redly  from  the  windows  of  the  lower  room  on  the 
right-hand  side. 

The  curate  lifted  his  daughter  and  her  child  from  the 
carryall  and  opened  the  gate  that  led  between  two  low  stone 
walls,  also  covered  with  green  creepers,  up  to  the  steps  of 
the  long  porch  before  the  house.  But  some  one  in  the  house 
had  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  for  the  front  door  was  flung 
open,  a  small,  slender  woman  rushed  out  and  threw  herself, 
sobbing,  into  the  arms  of  Jennie. 

"Oh,  my  darling !  my  darling !  my  darling !" 

"Oh,  mother!  mother!  mother!" 

That  was  all  they  could  say,  as  they  clasped  each  other, 
sobbing. 

Mr.  Campbell  went  on  before  them  into  the  house,  carry 
ing  the  baby  out  of  the  night  air. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  come  in !  Oh,  welcome  home,  my 
child!  my  child!"  sobbed  the  mother,  as,  with  her  arm 
around  the  waist  of  her  daughter,  she  supported  her  into  the 
house,  through  the  hall  and  into  that  warm,  bright  room, 
where  a  sea  coal  fire  wras  blazing  in  the  grate,  and  a  chan 
delier  hung  from  the  ceiling  just  over  a  dainty  white  cloth 
that  covered  the  tea  table,  on  which  a  pretty  china  service 
was  arranged. 

The  parlor  was  furnished  entirely  in  crimson — carpet, 
curtains,  chair  and  sofa  covers  were  all  crimson,  which,  in 


38  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

the  lamplight  and  firelight,  gave  a  very  warm,  bright  glow 
to  the  room,,  which  the  travelers  had  seen  from  the  carryall 
without. 

Jennie  was  placed  in  an  easy-chair,  and  her  fur-lined 
cloak  and  beaver  hat  taken  off  her  by  gentle  mother  hands. 
Even  in  that  sacred  moment  of  meeting,  the  feminine  in 
stinct  caused  the  curate's  wife  to  hold  up  and  admire  the 
rich  cloak  and  hat  that  had  been  given  Jennie  by  her  New 
York  friends. 

"You  haven't  looked  at  baby,  mother  dear/'  said  Jennie. 

"Oh  !  so  I  haven't!  How  could  I  forget !"  exclaimed  the 
young  grandmother;  and  down  went  cloak  and  hat,  disre 
garded,  on  the  floor,  while  she  turned  to  look  for  the  little 
queen  who  was  destined  to  ascend  the  throne  of  the  house 
hold. 

Mr.  Campbell,,  smiling  at  this  impetuosity,  placed  the  in 
fant  in  her  arms. 

And  then — but  I  will  spare  my  readers  the  rhapsodies 
that  ensued. 

Meanwhile,  everything  else  was  forgotten. 

But  Nahum,  the  driver,  remembered  he  had  to  collect  his 
fare,  and  so  "made  bold"  to  walk  into  the  curate's  house, 
and  stand,  hat  in  hand,  at  the  parlor  door.  As  he  stood  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  light,  he  appeared  a  little,  sturdy, 
muscular  man,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  complexion;  for 
while  his  skin  was  swarthy  and  his  short  hair,  stubby  beard 
and  heavy  eyebrows  were  as  black  as  jet,  his  eyes  were  light 
blue.  But  the  most  characteristic  feature  in  his  remarkable 
face  was  his  nose,  which  was  large  and  turned  up  so  that 
his  nostrils  described  a  semicircle  upward.  It  was  a  "mock 
ing  nose,"  of  the  most  distinct  type.  He  wore  a  suit  of 
coarse  blue  tweed,  and  carried  a  battered  felt  hat. 

"Well,  Nahum!"  exclaimed  the  curate  on  catching  sight 
of  him. 

"Please,  your  reverence,  it  is  eight  shillings,  sir." 

"Oh  !    Ah  !   Yes  !"  said  the  curate. 

And  the  price  was  paid  and  the  driver  dismissed. 

Esther  Campbell  and  her  recovered  daughter  were  now 
seated  close  together  on  the  crimson  sofa,  which  was  drawn 
up  on  one  side  of  the  blazing  fire.  Esther  had  her  grand 
child  on  her  lap  and  her  right  arm  around  Jennie's  waist, 
while  Jennie's  head  rested  on  her  shoulder. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  39 

"Come,  Hetty,  my  love,  we  want  our  tea,"  said  the  curate. 

Mrs.  Campbell  put  the  baby  in  its  mother's  arms  and 
rang  the  bell. 

A  Yorkshire  woman  of  middle  age,  dressed  in  a  blue 
cheviot  cloth  skirt  and  a  gay  striped  sack  of  many  colors, 
came  in  with  the  tea  urn  and  put  it  on  the  table.  She  was 
a  stranger  to  Jennie,  but  she  courtesied  to  the  "master's" 
daughter,  who  returned  her  greeting  with  a  smile  and  bow. 

"Where  is  our  old  servant,  mamma?"  inquired  Jennie 
when  the  new  one  had  left  the  room. 

"Oh,  Julia?  She  married  the  greengrocer  and  left  us 
just  before  we  left  Hedge." 

"Why,  Julia  was  forty  years  old  at  least !" 

"Yes,  dear,  and  the  greengrocer  was  a  widower  of  fifty 
with  all  his  children  grown  up,  married  and  settled." 

"A  good  match  for  Julia,  then !" 

"Excellent." 

The  Yorkshire  woman  re-entered  the  room,  bringing  in  a 
tray  on  which  was  arranged  hot  muffins,  dried  toast,  broiled 
chicken  and  fried  ham,  all  of  which  she  placed  on  the  table. 

"This  is  our  daughter,  Mrs.  Montgomery,  whom  we  have 
been  expecting  to  see  for  so  long  a  time,  Elspeth,"  said  Mrs. 
Campbell,  speaking  from  her  own  genial  nature  and  over 
flowing  happiness. 

Elspeth  courtesied  again  and  smiled,  but  said  nothing; 
she  was  rather  shy.  She  took  the  baby,  however,  when  the 
curate  and  his  wife  and  daughter  sat  down  to  the  table. 

Esther  Campbell  looked  a  young,  fair  and  pretty  woman 
as  she  presided  over  the  tea  urn.  She  was  really  thirty-five 
years  old,  but  did  not  look  more  than  twenty-three.  But, 
then,  she  had  always  had  excellent  health,  few  family  cares 
and  no  sorrows,  except  in  the  marriage  of  her  daughter,  and 
even  that  was  a  light  one  compared  to  what  that  wayward 
daughter  was  made  to  suffer.  She  was  a  woman  of  medium 
height  and  slender  form,  for  she  had  escaped  the  malady  of 
fat  to  which  women  of  middle  age  or  those  approaching 
middle  age  are  subjected.  Her  figure  was  girlish,  her  fea 
tures  were  delicate,  her  complexion  very  fair,  with  a  faint 
rose  hue  over  cheeks  and  chin.  Her  hair  was  brown,  bright 
and  curly.  She  wore  her  only  Sunday's  dress,  a  dark  green 
silk  with  a  little  lace  at  the  throat  and  wrists.  It  was  put  on 
in  honor  of  her  daughter's  return. 


40  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

The  party  of  three  waited  on  themselves  and  each  other. 

When  all  were  served  Hetty  Campbell  would  most  eagerly 
have  asked  her  daughter : 

"Where  is  your  husband?"  but  that  she  feared  something 
was  very  wrong  with  him  and  dared  not  question  Jennie  on 
this  subject  in  the  presence  of  the  new  servant. 

Jennie  had  a  healthy  young  appetite,  and  ate  heartily,  to 
the  great  comfort  of  her  mother,  who  joyously  watched  her 
plate  and  kept  it  well  supplied. 

"Do  you  like  this  place,  mamma?"  inquired  Jennie  at 
length. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  on  many  accounts  I  like  it  very  much. 
Of  course  we  felt  a  natural  regret  at  leaving  a  home  where 
we  had  Jived  so  long  that  we  seemed  grown  into  it,  like  a 
cluster  of  oysters  in  their  shells,  which  to  shuck  out  is  death. 
But  as  it  was  not  our  own  act  there  was  no  compunction ; 
and  as  it  was  inevitable,  there  had  to  be  resignation.  We 
are  happy  here,  my  dear." 

"But  the  old  friends — the  people  papa  has  christened  and 
married  and  comforted  and  instructed  for  twenty  years ! 
For  he  was  there  before  you  were  married,  mamma." 

"Yes,  it  was  hard  to  leave  them.  But  the  knowledge  that 
we  must  submit  to  the  inevitable  strengthened  us  even  for 
that." 

"And  how  do  you  like  the  people  here,  mamma?" 

"Very  much,  indeed.     They  are  exceedingly  kind." 

Elspeth  having  set  the  baby  in  its  mother's  lap,  and  left 
the  room  to  take  a  new  supply  of  hot  muffins  from  the  oven, 
Jennie  lowered  her  voice  and  inquired: 

"And  the  one  humble  woman  among  the  people  with 
whom  we  are  in  daily  intercourse,  and  on  whom  so  much 
of  our  comfort  must  depend,  mamma?" 

"You  mean  our  new  servant?" 

"Of  course.    Is  she  a  worthy  successor  to  Julia?" 

"A  most  worthy  one.  Elspeth — the  widow  Longman — 
has  not  always  been  in  service.  She  has  had  reverses  and 
great  sorrows — the  loss  of  her  husband  while  she  was  still 
a  young  woman  with  an  infant  boy,  a  boy  whom  she  spoiled 
as  only  a  widowed  mother  can  spoil  an  only  child.  He  grew 
up,  so  it  is  said,  not  really  wicked  or  worthless,  but  idle, 
wilful,  headstrong,  and  fond  of  pleasure  and  of  roving. 
One  day  the  poor  mother  lost  her  temper,  under  some  great 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  41 

provocation,  and  told  him  he  was  the  one  grief  and  trial  of 
her  life,  or  words  to  that  effect.  He  took  his  hat  and  walked 
out  of  the  house.  She  thought  he  had  only  gone  to  the  barn 
or  to  the  village,  and  her  burst  of  grief  and  anger  being 
over,  she  prepared  that  evening  an  extra,  good  supper  for 
her  boy,  that  they  might  make  up  their  misunderstanding. 
But,  though  she  waited  long  and  anxiously,  he  did  not  come, 
nor  has  he  ever  come,  nor  has  she  ever  heard  one  word  of 
him  since  that  day  when  he  walked  out  of  the  house  in 
sullen  wrath." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful !  how  dreadful !"  exclaimed  Jennie. 

"Yes;  it  nearly  killed  her.  The  farm,  with  no  one  to 
look  after  it,  went  to  rack  and  ruin.  She  was  compelled  to 
sell  off  all  the  stock  to  pay  the  rent,  and  then  to  give  up 
the  lease  and  go  into  service.  That  is  Elspeth's  sad  little 
story/'  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  hurriedly  concluding  as  she 
saw  the  subject  of  her  discourse  re-entering  the  room  with 
the  plate  of  hot  muffins  in  hand. 

But  no  one  wanted  any  more. 

The  curate  gave  thanks  and  they  arose  from  the  table. 

The  mother  and  daughter  reseated  themselves  on  the 
crimson  sofa  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Hetty  Campbell  took 
the  baby  on  her  lap,  and  the  fondling  and  idolizing  re 
commenced,  and  might  have  continued  all  night,  but  that 
James  Campbell  wisely  put  an  end  to  the  play. 

"Come !"  he  said.  "I  have  been  traveling  night  and  day 
for  twenty-four  hours,  and  am  well  wrorn  out.  So  is  Jennie, 
though  she  has  only  traveled  one  day  by  rail.  So  we  had 
better  go  straight  to  bed.  Listen,  Hetty:  I  have  had  our 
daughter  all  day  long  to  myself.  You  take  her  to  your 
bosom  to-night." 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  his  wife,  not  understanding. 

"Do  you  sleep  with  Jennie  and  the  precious  baby  to 
night.  That  will  make  you  all  very  happy,  though  I  am  not 
so  sure  about  the  baby.  Only  don't  talk  all  night.  Put  off 
all  mutual  explanations  until  the  morning,"  the  curate  ex 
plained. 

Jennie  sprang  to  her  father  and  embraced  him,  exclaim 
ing: 

"Oh,  papa  !  how  good  of  you  !" 

Hetty,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  came  up  on  the  other 
side,  kissed  him,  and  said : 


42  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"How  kindly  thoughtful  of  you,  dear  Jim!" 

The  curate  laughed. 

"  There  !  there  !  I  shall  not  break  my  heart  for  your  ab 
sence  this  one  night,  Hetty,  my  dear.  I  shall  sleep  too 
soundly.  And  the  arrangement  is  on  no  account  to  be  a 
perpetual  one." 

Elspeth,  having  cleared  away  the  tea  table,  was  called  in, 
and  the  evening  worship  was  offered  earlier  than  usual. 

Mr.  Campbell  in  the  course  of  his  devotions  prayed  for 
the  safe  return  of  the  poor  widow's  son.  This  he  had  always 
done  morning  and  evening  since  Elspeth  had  been  living 
with  the  family. 

It  was  a  great  comfort  to  the  poor  mother,  who  one  day 
said  to  Mrs.  Campbell : 

"No  minister  ever  prayed  for  my  poor  lad  to  come  back 
before.  Now  the  minister  prays  for  him,  I  know  he  will 
come.  I  see  it  a'  as  plain  as  if  my  eyes  were  opened ;  the 
maister's  prayer  goes  straight  up  to  the  Throne;  the  Lord 
receives  it,  and  sends  its  spirit  straight  down  to  my  boy's 
heart,  wherever  he  may  be  on  the  footstool ;  and  he  will  feel 
it  a-drawing  and  a-drawing  of  him  until  he  turns  his  steps 
homeward.  I  know  it !  And,  oh !  mem,  the  one  that  kept 
me  from  going  crazy  with  the  trouble  was  the  thought  that 
go  where  he  would,  he  wouldn't  get  out  of  the  Lord's  world ; 
and  if  I  didn't  know  where  he  was,  the  Lord  did ;  and  if  I 
couldn't  see  him,  the  Lord  could.  So  I  prayed  for  him,  and 
by  the  Lord's  help  kept  up." 

When  the  prayers  were  over  the  little  family  circle  sep 
arated. 

Elspeth  went  back  to  her  kitchen  to  wash  up  her  dishes. 

Hetty  and  Jennie  kissed  the  husband  and  father  good 
night  and  went  up  to  a  spacious,  white-draped  chamber 
which  was  over  the  parlor,  and  where  a  fine  sea  coal  fire 
was  burning ;  and  there  they  went  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   THE   SILVER   MOON   MINING   CAMP 

IT  was  the  close  of  a  dark  November  day.    Heavy  mists 
hung  over  the  gulch  and  settled  upon  the  mountain  stream 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  43 

that  ran  between  high  banks  at  its  bottom.,  and  upon  the 
miners'  huts  that  dotted  either  side. 

The  men  had  returned  from  their  work  and  many  of 
them  were  seeking  rest  and  refreshment  in  the  shed  digni 
fied  with  the  name  of  saloon,  where  they  paid  very  high 
prices  for  very  bad  whisky,  and  won  or  lost  money  with  very 
grimy  cards. 

One  excuse  for  them  was  this — the  camp  was  a  new  one, 
far  out  of  civilization.  It  had  been  called  into  existence  by 
the  hue  and  cry  of  a  new  and  grand  discovery  of  ore  in  a 
mine  which  the  discoverers  christened  the  Silver  Moon.  It 
was  formed  mostly  of  men  who  had  been  unsuccessful  in 
other  mines.  And  there  was  not  a  woman  in  it. 

Three  men  sat  on  the  ground  in  the  rudest  of  rude  stone 
huts,  built  up  irregularly  of  small  fragments  of  rocks,  and 
roofed  with  slender  logs.  There  was  neither  door,  window 
nor  chimney,  but  there  was  an  opening  in  front,  protected 
by  a  buffalo  hide — to  keep  the  heat  in,  and  there  was  a  hole 
in  the  roof  to  let  the  smoke  out.  The  floor  was  the  solid 
earth,  and  the  fire  was  built  against  the  wall.  There  was 
scarcely  any  furniture  to  be  seen,  only  a  heap  of  coarse 
blankets  in  one  corner,  and  an  iron  pot  and  a  few  tin  cups 
and  plates  in  another. 

Judy's  well-ordered  hut  at  Grizzly  was  a  little  palace 
compared  to  this  squalid  shelter. 

The  three  men  sitting  on  the  earth  floor,  before  the  fire, 
which  afforded  the  only  light  in  the  place,  were  unkempt, 
unwashed  and  altogether  about  the  roughest-looking  savages 
since  the  prehistoric  ages.  Yet  they  were  three  as  different 
men  as  could  be  found  anywhere. 

The  first  was  perhaps  the  very  tallest  man  ever  seen  out 
side  of  a  show,  grandly  proportioned,  with  a  fine  head,  fine 
face,  clear,  blue  eyes,  and  yellow  hair  that  flowed  to  his 
shoulders,  and  a  yellow  beard  that  fell  to  his  bosom.  He 
was  clothed  in  a  buckskin  coat  trimmed  with  fur,  now  much 
the  worse  for  wear,  and  buckskin  leggings  and  buffalo-hide 
boots.  In  a  word,  this  Hercules  was  our  old  friend,  Samson 
Longman. 

The  second  was  a  medium-sized  and  elderly  man,  with  a 
Hi  in,  red  face,  red  beard  and  a  bald  head.  He  was  clothed 
in  a  coarse,  gray  shirt,  duck  trousers,  a  nondescript  jacket, 
and  many  wrappings  of  sackcloth  and  sage  grass  around  his 


44  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

feet  and  ankles,  by  way  of  boots.  He  was  our  old  acquaint 
ance,  Andrew  Quin. 

The  third  was  a  slight  yet  muscular  youth,  with  clear, 
bright  complexion,  dark  gray  eyes  and  dark  brown  hair,  a 
mocking  nose  and  a  laughing  mouth.  He  wore  a  coarse,  red 
flannel  shirt,  duck  trousers,  tucked  into  hide  boots,  a  knit- 
woolen  blouse,  and  battered  felt  hat.  Of  course,  he  was 
young  Michael  Man. 

All  three  of  the  men  lived  together  like  friends  in  this 
hut.  This  evening  they  were  all  very  grave,  not  to  say 
gloomy. 

Old  Dandy  Quin,  sitting  flat  upon  the  ground  and  en 
gaged  in  unwinding  the  strips  of  sacking  from  his  tired 
feet,  was  the  first  to  break  a  silence  that  had  continued  some 
time. 

"Fm  gettin'  tired  of  this  yere,"  he  grumbled.  "Here 
we've  been  more'n  two  months  working  like  mules,  and 
never  got  a  gleam  o'  this  yere  moonlight.  It's  moon-calves 
we  are,  all  on  us.  Ef  it  hadn't  been  for  Longman  and  his 
gun  we'd  'a'  starved !  that's  what  we  would — 'a'  starved ! 
We  never  had  no  luck  nowhere !  Leastways,  I  never  had ! 
I've  been  nigh  twenty  years  slaving  in  the  mines,  digging  in 
the  bowels  of  the  yeth,  working  hard  and  living  harder,  and 
running  like  a  luny  after  a  jack-o'-lantern,  from  one  grand 
discov'ry  to  another,  but  never  got  no  more  but  hard  work 
and  harder  living  out  of  any  on  'em,  and  now  I'm  sixty 
years  old  come  next  Martinmas,  and  I'm  gettin'  tired  on 
it,"  he  concluded,  flinging  his  rags  aside  and  caressing  his 
poor  feet. 

"Dandy,  ye  poor  onld  craychur,  haven't  ye  pit  a  cint  it 
self,  nowhere?"  questioned  Mike  in  a  sympathetic  tone. 

"Oh,  jest  eleven  hundred  dollar  in  the  savings  bank  at 
Sacramento,  and  that  I  hev  saved  up,  dollar  be  dollar,  in 
the  last  twenty  years,  a-working  hard  an'  a-living  hard,  and 
a-starving  and  a-stinting  of  meself  to  do  it !  And  since  here 
we  have  come  to  this  Silver  Moon  Mine  it  hev  been  all  loss 
and  no  gain !  And  as  I  said  before,  we'd  7a'  starved  to 
death  ef  it  hadn't  been  for  Longman  and  his  gun.  And  now 
he  is  going  back  on  us !"  concluded  Dandy  in  an  injured 
tone  and  with  a  look  of  reproach  at  the  giant. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  do  that,"  said  Longman,  stroking 
his  long,  yellow  beard.  "But,  Dandy,  why  won't  you  go 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  45 

with  me?  I  will  gladly  take  you.  You  are  alone  here  and 
growing  old.  Have  you  no  natural  longings  to  see  your 
native  country  ?  Come  !  come  along  with  me  !" 

"Why  can't  you  stay  here?  How  do  you  know  but  to 
morrow  the  stroke  of  a  pick  may  strike  a  vein  of  solid 
silver  running  down  to  the  very  middle  of  the  earth?"  de 
manded  Dandy. 

"  Ah,  that's  it !  Delusive  hope  has  been  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  that  has  led  you  on  from  post  to  pillar  for  twenty  years 
of  unsuccess." 

"Well,  after  working  twenty  years  for  almost  nothing, 
you  wouldn't  have  a  man  miss  the  chance  of  turning  up  a 
fortune  with  the  very  next  stroke  of  his  pick — a  fortune 
that  would  pay  him  for  all  he  has  suffered — would  you  ?" 

"No,  certainly  not,  if  such  luck  were  probable.  But, 
Dandy,  my  friend,  your  pick  has  never  struck  a  vein,  and  I 
think  it  never  will.  Be  sensible.  Draw  your  money  from 
the  savings  bank,  and  come  home  to  England  with  me. 
That  sum  will  be  a  fortune  to  you  in  England,  and  set  you 
up  in  any  light  business  you  may  like ;  or  buy  you  a  small 
annuity  sufficient  for  your  comforts  for  the  rest  of  your 
life.  Think  of  it,  Dandy,"  said  Longman,  with  kindly  in 
terest  in  the  lonely  man. 

"What  makes  you  so  hot-foot  all  of  a  sudden  to  go  back 
to  England?"  demanded  Dandy.  "A  great,  strapping,  very 
strapping  young  fellow  like  you  to  leave  the  grand  field  of 
enterprise  to  go  back  to  England?" 

Longman  sighed  and  asked  in  his  turn : 

"What  brought  you  here,  Dandy?" 

"Well,  I  s'pose  it  was  the  goold." 

"Ay,  man,  the  gold — the  gold  fever.  I  have  nothing  to 
say  against  it,  because  it  has,  on  the  whole,  enriched  and 
blessed  the  world ;  or,  at  least,  I  hope  and  believe  so.  But 
you,  to  come  out  here  to  the  gold  country  at  forty  years  of 
age,  and  to  spend  twenty  years  of  life  as  hard  as  the  life  of 
a  conviet,  in  the  pursuit  of  an  ignis-fatuus  that  always 
eluded  you,  still  under  the  delusion  that  the  next  stroke  of 
your  pick  may  discover  a  vein,  is  to  have  lost  so  much  of 
your  life !  Think  of  what  I  have  said,  Dandy,  and  redeem 
and  enjoy  the  rest." 

"I'll  think  of  it,  Maister  Longman.  But  ye  hevn't  an 
swered  my  question.  What  brought  yerself  out?  Not  the 


46  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

goold  fever,  Fll  be  bound.  I  hev  never  seed  ye  handle  a 
pick  or  shool." 

"No,  not  the  gold  fever.  I  was  never  fond  of  digging  or 
delving,  or  any  sort  of  hard  work.  That  was  my  ruin, 
Dandy/'  said  Longman  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Ruin!"  exclaimed  old  Andrew,  looking  at  the  speaker 
from  head  to  foot.  "Well,  then,  ye  are  the  foinest  spacimin 
of  a  well-presarved  ruin  as  ever  1  seed  in  my  loife." 

"My  hatred  of  steady  work  made  me  an  outcast  from  my 
home  and  an  exile  from  my  country,  Dandy,"  gravely  re 
plied  the  hunter. 

"A  great,  tall,  strong  fellow  like  you  to  be  lazy!"  ex 
claimed  Dandy. 

"No,  not  lazy;  but  averse  to  steady,  hard,  confining 
work,"  said  Longman. 

"An'  for  that  same  did  the  feyther  of  ye  turn  ye  adrift, 
me  poor  Sam?"  inquired  Mike,  striking  into  the  talk. 

"No,  not  my  father — he  was  dead;  but  my  mother  did." 

"Your  mither !  Hivenly  mither  av  us  all!"  exclaimed 
Mike,  stupidly  staring  at  the  hunter. 

"I  deserved  it,  Michael,"  said  the  hunter. 

"Och,  thin,  tell  us  all  and  about  it,  Sam,  dear,"  said 
Mike  sympathetically. 

And  Longman  briefly  told  his  little  story. 

"You  see,  my  father  was  a  small  farmer  at  Chuxton,  in 
the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire.  I  do  not  remember  him, 
though  I  hope  some  day  to  make  his  acquaintance  in  the 
upper  world.  He  left  this  one  when  I  was  a  very  young 
child — the  first  and  only  child,"  he  began. 

"  'The  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow  ?'  Ye'll  be 
looked  after,  Sam,  be  the  Lord  Himsilf,  or  ilse  all  the 
howly  fathers  have  taiched  me  is  not  true,"  put  in  Mike. 

"Our  neighbors  used  to  say  that  my  mother  spoiled  me. 
I  have  often  heard  them  say  it  to  her  before  my  face  when 
I  was  a  bairn." 

"And,  no  doobt,  they  telled  the  truth,"  exclaimed  Dandy. 

"And  what  would  the  mither  say  to  that?"  inquired 
Mike. 

"She  would  only  draw  me  to  her  side  and  kiss  me,  to 
comfort  me  for  the  mortification  of  hearing  such  words. 
But  you  were  right,  Dandy.  The  neighbors  did  tell  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  47 

truth.  My  poor,  widowed  young  mother  did  spoil  her  only 
child  in  her  excessive  fondness  for  him." 

"Well,  it  was  naterel,"  admitted  Dandy. 

"I  grew  up  a  very  idle  and  headstrong  boy,  fonder  of  con 
sorting  with  gamekeepers,  and  even  with  poachers,  than  of 
working  on  our  farm.  I  think  if  I  could  have  been  taken 
on  as  an  assistant  by  some  gamekeeper,  who  would  have 
given  me  plenty  to  do  among  guns  and  game,  I  might  have 
been  contented  to  stay  at  home;  but  I  could  get  no  such 
place.  Besides,,  my  work  was  badly  wanted  on  the  farm. 
We  were  not  able  to  hire  laborers.  My  mother,  myself  and 
one  boy  were  expected  to  do  everything ;  but  I  neglected  my 
part,"  said  Longman  with  a  deep  sigh. 

No  one  made  any  reply. 

"Mother  bore  with  me  very  patiently  for  all  the  years  I 
was  growing;  but  by  the  time  I  was  twenty  years  old,  and 
as  strong  and  tall  for  that  age  as  if  I  had  been  twenty-five 
instead,  and  when  the  farm  had  been  growing  from  bad  to 
worse  for  years,  my  poor  mother  frequently  lost  her  temper 
and  scolded  me — scolded  me,  a  man,  whom  she  had  never 
scolded  as  a  boy." 

"And,  faith,  ye  desarved  it,  hinny,"  said  Dandy. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  did.  But  one  thing  I  can  remember  with 
satisfaction:  bad  as  I  was,  I  never  gave  my  mother  what 
she  would  have  called  'the  back  answer/  I  never  in  my 
life  spoke  an  undutiful  word  to  my  mother." 

"Good  for  ye,  Sam!"  exclaimed  Mike. 

"When  her  words  were  very  sharp  and  bitter,  and  I  could 
stand  them  no  longer,  I  used  to  take  my  hat  and  walk  out, 
and  never  come  back  till  night.  And  she — poor  mother ! — 
she  would  have  a  nice,  hot  supper  waiting  for  her  prodigal 
son,  with  some  extra  luxury  that  she  could  ill  afford  added 
to  the  feast." 

"An7  she  was  a  good  craychur,  be  that  same  token,"  ex 
claimed  Mike. 

"Yes,  she  was  good — very  good — but  I  tired  her  beyond 
her  patience.  One  day  the  crisis  came;  the  rent  was  behind 
hand;  the  bailiff  was  threatening;  there  seemed  danger  of 
an  eviction.  Then  my  mother,  in  her  grief  and  anger, 
turned  on  me,  said  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  worthless- 
ness  the  farm  would  have  been  prosperous.  She  had  said 


38  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

that  so  often  before  that  the  words  had  lost  all  significance 
to  me.  But  she  ended  in  saying  this : 

"  'If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  Samson,  I  shouldn't  ha'  been 
brought  to  this  disgrace  and  poverty.  The  cobt  of  keeping 
you  in  idleness  would  have  paid  an  able-bodied  farm  laborer, 
who  would  have  kept  the  place  in  order.  And  now  I  tell 
you,  if  you  can't  work  here,  you  had  better  go  and  find  em 
ployment  somewhere  else  to  suit  you/  " 

"Faix,  it  was  harrd  on  ye,"  said  Mike. 

"  It  was,  though  she  did  not  mean  it.  She  was  half  crazy 
with  the  trouble  that  I  might  have  warded  off  from  her. 
But,  boys,"  added  Longman  solemnly,  "her  words  fell  on 
me  stinging,  burning,  smarting,  humiliating  as  a  lash  laid 
on  a  naked  back.  Without  a  word  I  took  up  my  hat  and 
walked  out  of  the  house,  as  I  had  often  done  before  on  other 
but  less  bitter  occasions;  only  this  time  I  did  not  return. 
That  was  five  years  ago.  I  have  never  seen  my  mother 
since." 

A  solemn  silence  fell  on  the  trio. 

Presently  old  Dandy  inquired: 

"An'  where  did  ye  go  thin?  Ye  couldn't  hev  hed  mooch, 
money  in  yer  pocket,  if  there  was  none  to  pay  the  rint." 

"No,  I  had  not  a  shilling.  I  walked  into  Chuxton,  sold 
my  silver  watch  for  all  it  would  bring,  and  then  took  a 
third-class  ticket  in  the  cheap  parliamentary  train  to  Lon 
don,  shipped  as  an  able-bodied  seaman  on  board  the  Auro, 
bound  from  St.  Katherine's  Docks  to  the  Golden  Gate." 

"So  it  was  for  goold  ye  kem,  after  all,"  said  Dandy. 

"Not  at  all.  I  never  went  near  the  mines  in  search  of 
gold.  I  drew  my  pay  at  'Frisco,  bought  a  couple  of  guns, 
a  lot  of  ammunition,  some  boots,  and  struck  into  the  wil 
derness,  where  there  was  plenty  of  game  and  no  game  laws."1 

"An'  how  hev  ye  thriven?  Ye  see,  I  niver  knowed  ye 
afore  we  met  in  the  woods  last  summer,"  said  Dandy. 

"I  have  done  well.  I  have  been  an  industrious  hunter. 
I  have  supplied  forts,  post  agencies,  miners'  camps  and 
military  caravans  with  game.  I  have  saved  more  money 
than  you  have,  Dandy;  and  I  am  going  home  to  old  Eng 
land — on  a  visit,  mind  you,  not  to  stay — I  wouldn't  stay 
there  on  any  terms,  unless  some  one  would  make  me  head 
keeper  on  some  estate  where  there  is  plenty  of  game.  Even 
that  would  be  a  poor  substitute  for  the  grand,  free  life  of 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  49 

the  hunter  in  these  wilds.  But,  Mike,  why  do  you  look  at 
me  in  that  strange  way?77  Longman  inquired  of  the  Irish 
boy,  who  had  been  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
his  head  held  between  the  palms  of  his  hands,  gazing  silent 
ly  and  steadfastly  into  the  face  of  the  hunter. 

"Yis,  I'm  lookin'  at  ye;  I'm  observin'  ye,  Misther  Long 
man.  That's  so  !  That's  a  fact  there's  no  denyin',"  replied 
Mike,  without  removing  his  gaze,  which  was  becoming  em 
barrassing,  if  not  offensive,  to  the  good-natured  hunter. 

"But  why?  What's  the  matter?77  demanded  Longman, 
shifting  his  position  so  as  to  get  out  of  the  range  of  Mike's 
eyes'  fire. 

"  "What  is  the  matther ?  Och  !  he  ax  what  is  the  matther ! 
Haven't  ye  just  telled  us  how  ye  ran  away  fram  yer  poor 
withowed  mither  in  her  throuble,  an'  nivir  wint  back  to  ax 
how  she  v/indded  through  it  ?  An'  ye  ax  me  what's  the  mat 
ther?77  exclaimed  Mike  with  much  excitement. 

"But,  Mike,  she  turned  me  out  of  doors.77 

"No,  she  didn't,  Misther  Longman.  Not  aven  on  your 
own  showin',  which  was  like  to  be  in  your  own  favor.  She 
upbreeded  you  for  idleness  an'  neglect  av  dooty.  An'  she 
was  right !  An'  she  told  yer  if  ye  couldn't  worruk  on  the 
f  arrai  ye'd  betther  go  and  worruk  somewheres  else.  An'  she 
was  right  again,  so  she  was.77 

"Well,  she  was  right ;  and  I  took  her  at  her  word  and  left 
to  work  somewhere  else.77 

"Yis ;  an'  ye  were  the  vagabond  av  the  worruld  for  doin' 
that  same,  Misther  Longman.  Sure  ye  knew  she  nivir 
meant  it,  an'  yez  leaving  must  ha'  broke  her  heart,  and  yez 
her  onliest  one  in  the  worruld.77 

"What  would  you  have  had  me  to  do,  Mike?"  inquired 
Longman  very  patiently. 

"What  wad  I  hev  had  ye  to  do,  is  it?  Why,  to  hev  gone 
to  worruk  on  the  farm  and  mindded  yer  ways  from  that 
hour,  and  hed  the  rint  reddy  on  pay  day.  That's  what  I 
wud  hev  had  ye  to  do,  Misther  Longman.  I  nivir  hed  a 
mither ;  me  and  me  twin  swishter,  Judy,  was  orphint  childer 
— born  so — and  nivir  knowed  a  mither.  But  if  I  hed  hed  a 
mither,  and  she  had  got  mad  at  me  and  put  me  out  av  the 
front  door,  I'd  'a'  kern  in  at  the  back  one.  I  wud  nivir  hev 
deserted  me  own  mither — nivir !  But  I  nivir  hed  a  mither, 
and  thim  as  has  blessings  nivir  vally  thim.  I'm  spaking  me 


50  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

mind,  Misther  Longman,  and  ye  may  dooble  me  oop  and 
fling  me  over  the  bank  and  brek  me  neck  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gulch  if  ye  like,  for  ye're  twice  as  big  and  strong  as  meself, 
but  I'm  bound  to  spake  me  mind !"  exclaimed  the  Irish  boy 
excitedly,  digging  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  and 
straightening  himself  up. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Mike.  You  are  a  brave,  true  young 
fellow,  and  all  that  you  say  is  right.  Now,  then,  I  must  tell 
you  that  I  have  not  neglected  my  mother.  I  wrote  to  her 
before  I  sailed  from  London,  telling  her  where  I  was  going. 
I  also  wrote  to  her  from  'Frisco.  I  have  written  to  her 
from  every  available  point  where  I  have  taken  up  my  abode. 
But  I  have  never  had  an  answer  to  any  letter.  She  must 
have  discarded  me,  and  perhaps  married  again,  for  she  was 
a  comely  woman,  only  thirty-eight  years  old,  when  I  left 
her." 

"Did  it  nivir  occur  till  ye  that  the  letthers  might  be  lost 
in  a  wild,  onsartin  part  uv  the  worruld  like  this?"  inquired 
Mike. 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that.  And  lately — I  don't  know 
why — the  thought  has  grown  upon  me  that  my  poor  mother 
may  be  lonely  and  pining  for  her  prodigal  son.  I  cannot 
get  rid  of  that  thought.  It  haunts  me  day  and  night.  That 
is  why  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  home  and  make 
friends  with  my  mother." 

"As  if  she  ivir  was  anything  else  but  f rinds  wi'  ye,  Sam, 
darlint !"  broke  in  Mike.  He  had  stopped  calling  his  com 
rade  "Misther  Longman." 

"I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  I  meant  to  make  it  all  up 
with  her,  and  to  her,  if  I  could.  To  give  her  all  the  money 
I  have  saved,  to  make  her  comfortable  for  life;  and  then 
come  back  to  the  free  woods  and  the  free  game." 

"Less  ye  could  win  to  a  keeper's  place  in  the  owld  coun- 
thry,"  put  in  Mike. 

"Yes;  but  that's  a  dream,"  laughed  Longman. 

"  Aven  so,  it's  a  dhrame  that  may  kem  as  thrue  as  me  own 
swishter  Judy's  dhrame  about  her  swateharrt  that  brought 
her  all  through  the  Black  Woods  to  find  him  at  last." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  see  how  my  dream — which  was  not 
even  a  dream,  but  a  passing  thought  of  a  bare  possibility — 
can  come  true,"  laughed  Longman. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  51 

"Then  I'll  tell  you!"  exclaimed  Mike.  "Ye  know  Ean, 
whose  life  ye  saved?" 

"Why,  of  course !"  exclaimed  Longman  in  surprise  at  the 
vain  question. 

"Well,  I  only  wanted  to  mind  ye  of  him.  Ye  know  he 
has  kum  into  a  great  estate?" 

"Of  course,  I  have  heard  that,  too." 

"  Very  well,  thin.  He's  going  to  live  on  it.  And  if  ye  be 
in  England,  and  wanting  av  a  keeper's  place,  what  more 
natural  than  Misther  Hay  should  pit  you  over  his  own  kiv- 
virs  ?  You  thet  saved  his  life !" 

"But,  of  course,  the  estate  has  a  gamekeeper  already." 

"Tare  an'  'ounds,  man,  and  supposin'  an'  if  it  has! 
Misther  Hay  wud  kape  two  keepers  before  he'd  lave  you 
out'n  the  cold!"  indignantly  exclaimed  Mike. 

"I  know  he  would  do  all  he  possibly  could  for  any  of  us. 
But  it  is  time  enough  to  think  of  all  that  when  we  get  to 
England,"  said  Longman. 

"And  are  you  bent  on  going,  Mr.  Longman?"  inquired 
Andrew  Quin. 

"  'Bent  on'  it,  Dandy  ?  I  can't  help  it.  Something  is 
drawing  me.  I  feel  it  all  the  time." 

"On  a  visit?" 

"On  a  visit  for  the  present." 

"Then  I  go  with  you,  sir,  and  come  back  with  you,  if  I 
•feel  like  it — though  it  is  giving  up  the  chance  of  a  grand 
future." 

"But  it  is  making  reasonably  sure  of  enjoying  the  rest  of 
your  days,  Dandy." 

"Well,  mates,  if  you'll  both  be  laving,  it's  meself  that  will 
go  wid  you.  The  ould  fort  will  be  right  on  our  road,  and 
I  can  shtop  there  to  see  me  swishter  Judy,  and  then  111  go 
back  to  Grizzly.  Grizzly  ain't  no  great  shakes;  but  for  a 
steady-going  old  mining  camp,  that  will  nivir  promise  to 
mek  a  man  a  millingnaire,  nor  yet  starve  him  to  death,  but 
sorter  keep  him  a-going  on  fair  hopes  and  fair  profits,  why, 
thin,  give  me  ould  Grizzly !" 

"  Good  for  you,  Mike,  my  bold  boy !  We  shall  be  glad  to 
have  your  company,  even  as  far  as  the  fort,  if  no  further," 
said  Longman,  clapping  his  young  comrade  on  the  shoulder. 

"Well,  now,  boys,"  said  Andrew,  "I  hev  hed  twenty  years' 
experience  in  these  regions,  where  both  of  you  are,  relatively 


52  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

speaking,  newcomers.  And  I  tell  you,  airly  as  it  is  in  the 
season,  there's  snow  not  far  off,  and  if  so  be  we  are  bound  to 
start,  we  had  better  be'  off  to-morrow.  What  do  you  say?" 

" Tin  riddy,"  said  Mike. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Longman?" 

"I  agree  with  you. 

"  'Laugh  those  who  can !    Weep  those  who  may ! 
Southward  we  march  by  break  of  day  !'  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT  THE  FORT 

IT  was  a  glorious  November  morning,  not  yet  cold  in  the 
latitude  of  the  fort.  Though  there  was  a  large  wood  fire  in 
the  sitting-room  of  the  colonel's  quarters,  the  front  windows 
were  open,  admitting  the  fresh  air  as  well  as  the  bright  sun 
shine. 

The  colonel's  wife  sat  in  her  sewing-chair  beside  her 
work-stand  at  some  little  distance  from  the  open  window 
and  nearer  the  fire,  engaged  in  making  a  frock  for  one  of 
her  younger  girls. 

Judy  sat  at  the  window  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  dividing 
her  attention  between  the  open  page  and  the  open  view. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room.  The  colonel  and  his 
eldest  son,  "Jim,"  were  at  the  adjutant's  office.  All  the 
younger  children  were  in  the  schoolroom  under  the  charge 
of  their  eldest  sister,  "Betty,"  who  was  their  teacher. 

Judy  had  been  three  months  separated  from  her  brother, 
and  from  her  betrothed,  and  under  the  exclusive  care  of 
Mrs.  Moseley.  Quick,  witty,  imitative  and  anxious  to  im 
prove,  Judy  had  made  rapid  advances.  She  had  recovered 
all  the  half-forgotten  book  knowledge  taught  her  at  the  con 
vent  school,  and  had  progressed  considerably  beyond  that. 
Hearing  only  good  English  spoken  about  her,  she  had 
gradually  dropped  her  sweet  dialect,  which  both  Col.  Mose 
ley  and  Mr.  Jim  declared  to  be  a  lost  charm,  and  only  occa 
sionally,  under  emotion  or  excitement,  she  would  suddenly 
fall  into  it  again.  She  was  also  better  dressed  than  for- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  5$ 

merly ;  though  again  the  colonel  and  his  son  declared  not  so 
picturesquely. 

Mrs.  Moseley  had  judiciously  expended  a  portion  of  the 
money  left  by  Mike  for  the  benefit  of  his  sister,  and  her 
short,  red  skirt  and  black  jacket  had  given  place  to  a  brown 
dress  with  white  cuffs  and  collars,  exchanged  on  Sundays 
for  a  fine,  dark  blue  one  with  embroidered  frills. 

The  mail  came  twice  a  week  to  the  fort,  and  every  mail  - 
brought  Judy  two  or  more  letters  from  Ran ;  for  he  wrote 
nearly  every  day.    The  desire  to  answer  all  Ran's  letters  was 
a  o-reat  spur  to"improvement  in  Judy,  who,  showing  all  her 
compositions  to  Mrs.  Moseley,  begging  her  to  correct  the 
spelling   grammar   and  punctuation,   and  then   care 
studying  these  corrections  before  making  the  clean  copy  that 
finally  went  to  her  betrothed,  made  greater  progress  in 
her  education  than  she  could  have  accomplished  under  any 
other  circumstances. 

Ran  kept  her  advised  of  everything  that  happened  to  h 
and  his  latest  communications  assured  her  that  his  cause 
was  going  on  swimmingly,  though,  of  course,  there  were, 
necessarily,  "law's  delays." 

To  corroborate  this,  Mrs.  Moseley  received  occasional  let 
ters  from  her  old  schoolmate,  Mrs.  Samuel  Walling,  who 
gave  her  chapter  after  chapter  of  what  she  called  this  ro 
mance  in  real  life;  how  much  the  hero  of  it  was  admired 
by  all  to  whom  she  had  introduced  him ;  how  from  his  dark 
beauty  and  grace  he  was  dubbed  the  Oriental  Prince ;  how 
he  was  taken  up  by  every  one  in  society  except  the  Van- 
sitarts,  who,  in  the  interests  of  their  late  governess  and 
favorite,  and  with  idiotic  obstinacy,  disallowed  a  claim  that 
every  one  else  was  forced  to  admit;  last  of  all,  how  young 
Randolph  Hay  had  discovered  a  lovely  cousin,  and  sole  sur 
viving  relative,  in  Palma  Hay  Stuart,  the  only  child  of  his 
late  Uncle  James  Jordan  Hay,  and  the  wife  of  Cleve  Stuart, 
a  man  of  fortune  from  Mississippi. 

Much  of  this  information— all  of  it,  in  fact,  except  that 
which  concerned  his  "lionizing"— Ran  had  faithfully  im 
parted  to  Judy.  And  she  rejoiced  in  his  present  prosperity 
and  future  prospects. 

Judy  had  but  one  source  of  anxiety— her  Brother  Mike ! 
Three  letters  she  had  received  from  him  since  he  took  leave 
of  her  in  September;  but  these  had  reached  her  at  intervals 


54  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

of  a  week  or  ten  days  apart,  and  since  the  last  of  these 
three,  two  months  had  passed  and  she  had  heard  nothing. 

There  were  times  when  she  grew  very  much  distressed, 
and  felt  almost  sure  that  the  party  of  adventurers  to  which 
Mike  belonged  had  been  massacred. 

On  this  splendid  November  morning  Judy,  sitting  at  the 
window,  with  her  grammar  in  hand,  was  more  than  usually 
downcast. 

First,  there  was  the  news  that  had  come  to  her  from  her 
betrothed,  that  he  was  to  sail  for  England  about  the  first  of 
December  with  Mr.  Will  Walling,  to  go  through  certain 
forms,  preliminary  to  taking  possession  of  the  Hay  estate 
and  ousting  the  present  usurper;  his  absence  must  be  in 
definite;  but  he  would  return  as  soon  as  possible — he  hoped 
in  two  months'  time  at  the  furthest.  That  news  depressed 
the  girl  very  much;  but  that  was  not  all.  The  mail  that 
brought  Ran's  letter  brought  none  from  Mike.  It  was  at 
least  her  twentieth  disappointment,  but  she  felt  it  as  bitterly 
as  if  it  had  been  her  first. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Judy?"  at  length  inquired  the  col 
onel's  wife,  noticing  the  dejected  countenance  of  her 
protegee. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  it's  about  Mike !  I  am  sure  the  Indians 
must  have Oh,  ma'am,  I  can't  spake  it !"  the  girl  an 
swered,  breaking  oft  with  a  sob. 

"My  poor  child,  there  is  really  no  cause  for  such  keen 
anxiety.  Your  brother  and  his  party  have  gone  far  beyond 
the  mail  route  in  their  search  for  silver.  He  cannot  send 
a  letter  to  you  from  his  present  camp,  except  by  the  chance 
of  some  one  returning  toward  the  mail  routes.  Be  patient 
and  hopeful,  Judy." 

"I  do  try,  ma'am;  but  it  is  awful  to  lose  one's  brother  in 
such  a — void!" 

"  There  is  no  void  in  which  any  creature  can  be  lost, 
Judy;  for  the  Creator  is  everywhere,  and  He  is  our  Father 
as  well,  and  none  of  His  children  can  stray  out  of  His  pres 
ence.  It  must  be  dreadful  to  have  any  beloved  one  disap 
pear  mysteriously,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  Lord  knows 
where  he  or  she  is,  and  will  take  care  of  His  child,  living 
or  dead !" 

"I  believe  that,  ma'am/'  said  Judy,  trying  to  rally  her 
spirits. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  55 

She  returned  to  the  study  of  her  book ;  but  her  thoughts 
were  too  distracted  for  concentration,  and  her  eyes  wandered 
from  the  page  to  the  open  window.  The  great  gates  of  the 
fort  were  directly  in  front  of  the  colonel's  quarters  and 
about  a  hundred  yards  distant. 

Presently  Judy,  looking  out  toward  them,  dropped  her 
book,  started  up  and  exclaimed: 

"Why!    What!" 

And  then  she  stopped  and  gazed  through  the  window. 

"What  is  it,  my  child?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"A  strange  officer,  ma'am,  and  several  strange  soldiers 
coming  in  at  the  gate." 

Mrs.  Moseley  laid  down  her  work  and  came  and  joined 
Judy  at  the  window. 

A  small  troop  of  horsemen,  about  ten  men  in  all,  with 
an  officer  at  their  head,  marched  through  the  gate,  wheeled 
to  the  right,  and  rode  up  to  the  adjutant's  quarters,  where 
they  all  dismounted. 

The  officer,  attended  by  an  orderly,  went  into  the  office. 

The  men  remained  outside,  standing  by  their  horses. 

"What  does  it  mean,  ma'am,  do  you  think?"  inquired 
Judy. 

"I  don't  know.  It  may  be  some  small  reinforcement  on 
their  way  to  some  other  fort.  We  shall  hear  when  the 
colonel  comes  in." 

As  the  lady  spoke  the  orderly  came  out  of  the  adjutant's 
office  and  spoke  to  the  dismounted  men,  who  immediately 
dispersed,  leading  their  horses  away. 

The  two  women  stood  a  few  minutes  longer  at  the  win 
dow,  and  then,  as  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  learned  by 
looking  out,  each  returned  to  her  employment. 

Even  after  that,  Judy  continued  to  glance  from  her  lesson 
in  syntax,  through  the  open  window  that  commanded  the 
great  gates  and  a  broad  sweep  of  the  fort  grounds;  but 
nothing  occurred  to  reward  her  vigilance  or  satisfy  her 
curiosity. 

At  length  she  grew  tired  of  watching,  and  gave  her  un 
divided  attention  to  her  lesson. 

Two  hours  passed,  and  the  colonel  might  have  been  seen 
coming  from  the  adjutant's  office  to  his  own  quarters,  with 
a  brisk  step  and  a  radiant  face,  with  full  twenty  years  taken 
off  his  fifty. 


56  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Good  news,  Dolly,  my  dear!"  he  said,  bursting  into  the 
sitting-room.  "Good  news!  Dispatches  from  Washington. 
Call  all  the  children  together  to  hear  the  good  news." 

"Go,  Judy,  dear,  and  bring  them,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mose- 
ley  in  eager  anticipation. 

Judy  flew  to  do  her  bidding,  and  soon  the  room  was  filled 
with  the  progeny  of  the  military  patriarch. 

-'Where's  Jim?"  demanded  the  colonel,  looking  around. 

"Here  I  am,  father,"  said  the  eldest  son,  entering  the 
room  at  that  moment. 

"And  Betty?" 

"Here,  father,  behind  you.  So  close  to  you  that  you  can't 
see  me !" 

"  And  Baby  Lu?" 

"Right  there  between  your  feet,  father.  If  you  look  down 
you  will  see  her." 

"Hadn't  you  better  call  the  roll,  dad?  Then  you  will  be 
sure  that  we  are  all  here!"  cried  Master  Clin. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  young  scamp,  and  listen!"  ex 
claimed  the  colonel,  laughing.  Then  turning  to  his  wife 
gravely,  almost  tearfully,  he  said : 

"Dolly,  my  dear,  it  has  come  at  last !  It  has  been  a  long 
time  coming.  I  have  got  mv  promotion  and  six  months' 
leave !" 

Mrs.  Moseley  jumped  from  her  chair. 

"  Oh,  Moses  !  Moses  !  I  am  so  glad  !  So  thankful !  I 
never  expected  it  in  our  lifetime — never !  I  looked  that  we 
should  live  and  die  among  the  frontier  forts,  with  no  change 
but  from  one  to  another.  Oh,  thank  Heaven !  Thank 
Heaven!" 

"Maj.  Lawson  will  succeed  me  in  command  here.  Capt. 
King,  who  brought  the  dispatches,  remains  here  with  the 
ten  new  recruits  who  are  to  take  the  places  of  as  many  of 
our  soldiers  whose  terms  of  service  are  drawing  to  a  close. 
There,  children,  there  is  my  good  news.  Now  be  off  with 
you  and  rollic  over  it!"  he  added,  turning  to  the  young 
people. 

"Oh!  father  dear,  are  we  really  going  East?  Really 
going  to  the  cities  and  to  civilization?"  breathlessly  de 
manded  Betty,  thinking  this  news  much  too  good,  too  won 
derful  to  be  true. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  57 

And  the  faces  of  all  the  other  children  eagerly  seconded 
their  elder  sister's  question. 

"Really  and  truly,  my  dear  ones.  And  my  pleasure  in 
going  is  immeasurably  heightened  by  the  joy  the  anticipa 
tion  of  the  change  gives  you  all.  Now  run  away ;  I  wish  to 
speak  to  your  mother,"  he  said,  smiling  on  them. 

"Tell  us  one  thing,  dad,  do!"  said  Master  Clinton. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  my  boy?" 

"When  are  we  going?" 

"In  a  very  few  days.  I  cannot  tell  you  yet  what  day. 
Now  run  away." 

The  boy  scampered  off,  and  his  army  of  brothers  and 
sisters  followed  him. 

Judy  also  would  have  left  the  room,  but  Mrs.  Moseley 
stopped  her. 

"  Stay,  my  dear  girl.  We  only  sent  the  children  away  that 
they  might  give  vent  to  their  joy  in  the  open  air,  as  you  hear 
them  doing.  Now,  Moses!"  said  the  lady. 

"Well,  my  dear,  it  is  only  this:  King  will  dine  with  us 
to-day,  and  I  have  invited  Lawson,  and  Hill,  and  Perry  to 
meet  him.  Is  it  too  late  to  make  some  suitable  addition  to 
our  family  spread  ?"  anxiously  inquired  the  colonel. 

"  Oh !  no,  not  if  we  put  back  the  dinner  an  hour.  There 
is  a  fine  haunch  of  venison,  a  buffalo  tongue,  and  a  bunch 
of  prairie  fowl  that  I  have  just  bought  from  an  Indian. 
And  then  I  will  open  my  preserve  jars  in  honor  of  the  occa 
sion,  though  I  did  not  intend  to  touch  them  until  Christ 
mas." 

"You  are  a  tower  of  strength,  Dolly,  my  dear,  but  we 
shall  not  be  here  at  Christmas.  Now  I  have  something  to 
do  over  at  the  office.  I  will  be  back  with  King  a  little 
while  before  dinner,"  concluded  the  colonel  as  he  left  the 
room. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Judy?  You  look  very  grave,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Moseley,  who  was  at  last  at  leisure  to  ob 
serve  her  protegee. 

"Oh,  ma'am !"  said  the  girl  in  a  broken  voice,  being  al 
most  in  tears;  "oh,  dear,  ma'am,  it  is  not  that  I  am  not  glad 
and  thankful  for  the  good  fortune  that  has  come  to  you  and 
the  dear  colonel  and  the  childer " 

"Children,  Judy." 


58  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Yes,  ma'am,  children,  to  be  sure,  only  sometimes  I  do 
forget." 

"Well,  you  were  saying " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  was  saying  I  am  glad  and  thankful  to 
the  Lord  and  all  the  saints  for  the  blessing  and  the  pros 
perity  that  have  come  to  you;  but,  but,  but " 

"But  what,  Judy?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed 
aloud. 

"Judy !  Judy  !  Judy  !  What  is  all  this?  Are  you  crying 
because  you  are  doubtful  of  what  is  to  become  of  you?" 
tenderly  inquired  the  lady,  laying  her  hand  on  the  girl's 
curly,  dark  hair. 

"It's  the  parting  with  yeez  a',  ma'am !  And  the  thought 
what  will  I  do  at  all,  at  all,  when  ye  lave  this!  Oh,  sure 
it  is  a  silfish  wretch  that  I  am  to  be  graiving  for  meself, 
instid  of  rejoicing  with  yeez !"  wept  the  girl,  backsliding 
hopelessly  into  her  dialect. 

"Judy,  dear,  do  you  think  we  would  leave  you  behind? 
No,  dear,  not  one  of  us  would  think  of  such  a  cruel  thing. 
We  must  take  you  with  us,  Judy,  my  poor  child !" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  sure  and  it's  a  hivinly  angel  av  goodness  ye 
are  and  always  was,  and  meself  always  said  it.  And  I'd  go 
with  you,  willing,  and  glad,  and  grateful,  only  there's  me 
poor  Mike.  If  Mike  should  write  to  me,  or  come  to  see 
me,  what  wud  he  do  not  to  find  me?" 

"My  girl,  we  would  leave  word  with  the  adjutant  to  for 
ward  any  letters  that  might  come  for  you,  and  if  your 
brother  should  appear  in  person,  to  tell  him  where  you  were 
to  be  found.  There!  will  that  do?  And  remember  we  are 
going  to  New  York,  and  you  will  see  Ran  before  he  sails 
for  England.  Come,  now !  will  that  do  ?"  archly  inquired 
the  colonel's  wife. 

"Oh,  yis,  ma'am !  Yis,  sure !"  exclaimed  Judy,  her  eyes 
sparkling  through  her  tears.  "And  sure  meself  will  be 
the  thankful  craychur !" 

"Creature,  Judy." 

"  So  it  is !  Creature,  ma'am,  thank  you,  and  I  will  learn 
after  a  while." 

Mrs.  Moseley  then  left  the  sitting-room  and  went  to  the 
kitchen  to  give  directions  to  the  soldier's  wife  who  filled  the 
place  of  her  cook. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  59 

Judy  laid  aside  her  book  and  began  to  put  the  room  in 
order  for  the  visitors. 

Punctually  at  about  fifteen  minutes  before  the  dinner 
hour  the  colonel  came  in  with  Capt.  King,  a  fine,,  tall,  stal 
wart-looking  man  with  dark  complexion,  black  hair  and 
mustache,  and  about  thirty-five  years  of  age.  He  intro 
duced  the  strangers  to  Mrs.  Moseley,  who  received  him 
cordially,  and  to  "Miss  Man,"  who  only  bowed. 

They  were  soon  joined  by  the  major,  the  adjutant  and 
the  surgeon,  and  then  all  went  in  to  dinner.  Judy  scarcely 
opened  her  lips  in  speech  during  the  meal,  for  fear  of  fall 
ing  into  her  dialect.  The  impromptu  dinner  party  passed 
oft'  very  successfully,  and  the  evening  passed  gayly. 

The  next  day  being  Tuesday,  preparations  for  leaving 
the  fort  were  commenced  by  the  colonel  and  his  family. 

They  fixed  the  ensuing  Monday  for  their  departure. 

Mrs.  Moseley,  in  the  midst  of  her  packing,  found  time 
to  write  to  her  friend,  Augusta  Walling,  announcing  their 
return  to  the  East,  and  asking  her  to  find  a  large  furnished 
house  suitable  to  their  large  family  and  moderate  income, 
somewhere  in  an  inexpensive  suburb  of  New  York,  and  to 
have  it  ready  for  them  to  enter  on  their  arrival,  to  save  the 
cost  of  going  to  a  hotel  with  their  numerous  party. 

Every  one  was  happy  except  Judy,  who  was  grieving  to 
go  away  without  having  heard  from  her  missing  brother, 
even  though  she  was  going  where  she  would  be  sure  to  meet 
her  betrothed. 

With  distressful  anxiety  she  watched  for  the  one  remain 
ing  mail  that  would  come  in  before  they  would  leave  the 
fort. 

Thursday,  the  next  mail  day,  came  and  brought  her  let 
ters  from  Ran,  telling  her  of  the  progress  of  his  business 
and  the  passing  of  his  time,  and  that  he  had  at  length 
secured  apartments  in  the  same  building  with  his  cousins, 
and  had  left  his  hotel  to  establish  himself  there  until  he 
should  sail  for  England. 

Judy  was  satisfied  so  far  as  her  lover  was  concerned;  but 
she  was  so  bitterly  disappointed  and  distressed  at  not  get 
ting  any  news  of  her  brother  by  this  last  mail  that  she  felt 
as  if  her  last  hope  for  him  had  died  out,  almost  as  if  she 
might  mourn  him  as  dead,  and  she  went  away  to  her  own 
tiny  room  to  have  her  cry  out  by  herself. 


60  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Then  she  wrote  a  long  letter  addressed  to  her  brother,  in 
which  she  explained  to  him  the  necessity  of  leaving  the 
fort  with  the  colonel's  family,  and  begging  him  to  write  to 
her  or  come  and  see  her. 

This  she  placed  in  the  adjutant's  hands,  begging  him  to 
give  it  to  Mike  if  he  should  come  to  the  fort. 

By  Friday  night  all  the  preparations  for  departure  were 
completed.  It  had  been  a  heavy  week's  work  to  get  ready  a 
family  of  fifteen  for  a  removal  and  a  long  journey,  but  the 
task  was  finished  at  last,  and  the  colonel  said: 

"We  may  now  take  two  Sabbaths'  rest,  the  Jewish  and 
the  Christian,  before  setting  out  on  our  pilgrimage." 

And  that  night  the  whole  family  went  to  bed  tired  enough 
to  enjoy  the  two  days'  rest  to  come. 

The  next  day — Saturday — was  a  beautiful  day,  clear, 
and  bright,  and  mild.  Fine  fires  were  burning  in  all  the 
fireplaces,  but  all  the  windows  were  open. 

Mrs.  Moseley  was  distributing  to  the  few  soldiers'  wives 
that  were  in  the  camp  many  household  articles  that  she 
would  not  want.  Also  she  was  receiving  informal  visits 
from  officers'  wives,  who  were  sorry  to  have  her  leave  the 
fort. 

Judy,  having  nothing  on  earth  to  do,  was  walking  up 
and  down  on  the  piazza  of  the  colonel's  quarters,  thinking 
of  her  brother,  Mike,  and  his  too  probable  fate. 

On  this  day,  people  were  coming  in  and  going  out  of 
the  fort  gates  continually ;  but  Judy  took  no  notice  of  them. 

Presently  there  came  through  the  gates  another  troop — 
not  a  troop  of  horse  as  on  the  preceding  Monday,  but  a 
very  small  troop  on  foot,  consisting  of  some  half  a  dozen 
of  the  most  ragged,  dirty,  forlorn  and  Heaven-forsaken 
looking  tramps  that  Christian  eyes  ever  beheld. 

Judy,  pacing  up  and  down  the  piazza,  never  saw  them. 
She  was  muttering  to  herself: 

"I  know  he  is  dead,  but  I  shall  never  know  how  he  died, 
or  where  he  died,  or  how  much  he*  might  have  suffered 
before  he  died.  And  this  will  be  a  sorrow  to  me  worse  than 
death  itself !  A  life-long  sorrow  that  even  me  darlint  Ran 
can  nivir  comfort  me  for." 

"Judy!" 

A  familiar  voice  called  in  her  ear,  a  hard  hand  clapped 
her  on  the  shoulder. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  61 

She  sprang  as  if  she  had  been  shot,  gazed  for  an  instant 
as  if  she  had  gone  mad,  and  then,  with  a  great  cry,  flung 
herself  in  her  brother's  arms. 

Mike  was  worn  out  with  his  wearisome  tramp,  so  he  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  wooden  benches,  drew  his  sister  on 
his  knees,  and  held  her  to  his  bosom,  where  she  lay  sobbing 
in  a  great  paroxysm  of  emotion. 

Her  cry  had  brought  Mrs.  Moseley  and  several  other 
members  of  the  family  to  the  door.  They  saw  Mike  sitting 
there  with  his  sister's  face  hidden  on  his  bosom.  Mike 
lifted  his  old  rag  of  a  hat  to  the  lady,  who  smiled  and  re 
turned  into  the  house  with  all  who  had  followed  her  to  the 
door.  She  would  not  disturb  such  a  joyful  meeting.  She 
was  as  much  delighted  as  surprised  that  it  had  come  so 
opportunely. 

It  was  some  time  before  Judy  was  composed  enough  to 
speak.  And  even  then  her  first  utterances  were  incoherent 
ejaculations  of  thankfulness,  delight  and  affection.  At 
length  she  said,  falling  into  her  old  dialect : 

"It's  an  answer  to  prayer!  It's  a  blissing  come  down 
from  the  Mither  av  Hivin.  Oh,  sure  me  harrt  was  breaking 
in  me  brest  to  lave  this,  an'  yoursilf  away,  and  me  unbe 
knownst  of  whativir  hed  become  av  ye !" 

"Wheriver  were  ye  going,  Judy?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  sure  ye  didn't  know  !  How  should  ye  ?"  she  said. 
And  then  she  told  him  the  situation,  and  inquired,  in  her 
turn,  how  it  was  that  he  came  so  happily  to  see  her,  before 
her  departure. 

"That  Silver  Moon  Mine  was  jist  the  most  misfortunate 
ventur*  as  ivir  was  made !  Iviry  one  of  the  bhoys  as  went 
from  Grizzly  have  come  back,  hed  to,  ilse  we  wud  ha'  per 
ished  in  the  snow  there,,  this  winter.  What  a  differint  climit 
this  is !  Why,  it's  almost  like  simmir  here  compared  to 
there.  So  we's  all  going  back  to  slow  and  sure  old  Grizzly. 
All,  lasteways,  ixcipt  Longman  and  Dandy,  who  are  going 
back  to  the  ould  counthry." 

"  Oh,  Mike,  are  you  going  back  to  Grizzly  ?" 

"Yis,  sure!    Where  ilse  wud  I  go? " 

"  Oh,  Mike,  don't  let  us  be  parted !  Go  with  me  to  New 
York!  Ran  is  going  to  England  about  the  first  of  De 
cember;  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  him  once  more  before  he 
goes?" 


62  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Mike  hesitated,  then  he  said  slowly : 

"Sure,  and  I  wud  like  to  go  with  ye,  Judy,  and  I  wud 
like  to  see  Ran,  but " 

"Oh,  don't  say  but,  Mike.  Draw  out  the  bit  of  money  ye 
left  in  the  savings  bank  at  'Frisco,  and  come  with  us." 

"Yis,  but  what  the  divil  will  I  do  before  I  get  to  'Frisco 
without  a  cint  av  money  or  a  dacint  suit  av  clothes  ?" 

«0h— I'll— I'll— I'll  spake  to  the  colonel's  leddy!"  said 
Judy,  springing  up  impulsively  and  running  into  the  house 
to  lay  the  case  before  her  benefactress. 

Mrs.  Moseley  was  all  sympathy  and  kindness,  and  soon 
devised  a  plan  by  which  Mike  should  have  an  outfit  and 
transportation  to  San  Francisco,  where  he  might  draw  his 
savings  from  the  bank,  and  repay  all  advances. 

That  day  and  the  next,  through  the  kindness  of  the  colo 
nel  and  his  officers,  the  footsore,  starved  and  wearied 
tramps  were  fed  and  rested  at  the  fort. 

On  Monday  the  determined  miners  went  on  their  way  to 
Grizzly,  well  provided  with  food  and  drink  for  their  journey 
through  the  woods. 

At  the  same  time  a  train  of  ambulances  and  army 
wagons,  containing  the  colonel  and  his  numerous  family, 
the  discharged  soldiers,  with  Longman,  Mike,  Dandy  and 
much  goods,  filed  out  of  the  fort  gates  and  took  the  road  to 
St.  Agnetta,  where  they  were  all  to  take  the  train  to  San 
Francisco,  en  route  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  GLAD   SURPRISE 

"I  HAVE  found  them,  ma'am  !  I  have  found  them  !  And 
they  are  charming — charming!"  exclaimed  Ran  Hay  with 
boyish  exultation,  bursting  into  Mrs.  Samuel  Walling's  par 
lor  with  the  freedom  of  an  inmate  on  the  morning  succeed 
ing  his  meeting  with  Cleve  and  Palma  Stuart. 

"Sit  down,  you  excitable  fellow,  and  tell  me  whom  you 
have  found.  Is  it  Sir  John  Franklin  and  his  crew,  or  is  it 
Mr.  Livingstone  ?"  inquired  the  lady,  rising  and  giving  her 
hand  to  the  visitor. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  63 

"Neither,  ma'am;  though  I  would  give  my  life  to  find 
either  if  it  were  possible.  But  I  have  found  my  own  dear 
cousins !"  replied  Ran,  dropping  ir.to  a  chair. 

"Your  Uncle  James  Jordan's  children?  Those  whom  you 
advertised  for?" 

"His  daughter,  ma'am;  his  sole  surviving  child,  Palma, 
and  her  husband,  Cleve  Stuart,  who  is  the  only  son  and  sole 
heir  of  the  late  John  Stuart,  a  rich  planter  of  Mississippi. 
They  are  a  charming  young  couple,  only  a  few  months  mar 
ried^" 

" Cleve  Stuart?"  said  Mrs.  Walling,  musing. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Why,  I  know  him  !  He  used  to  be  a  devoted  admirer  of 
Lamia  Leegh.  We  all  thought  that  it  would  certainly  be 
a  match.  But  I  fancy  she  discarded  him  in  favor  of  the 
wealthier  suitor,  your  treacherous  traveling  companion, 
Gentleman  Gen2,  the  rival  claimant  of  Haymore." 

"If  she  did  she  made  a  miserable  mistake.  But  I  do  not 
think  she  did.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  had  the  chance.  I 
cannot  fancy  Stuart  ever  having  been  enslaved  by  any 
woman  before  his  lovely  wife,  to  whom  he  is  perfectly  de 
voted  !"  replied  Ran. 

"Ah!  well,  I  may  have  been  mistaken.  He  was  very 
much  in  society.  So  was  Miss  Leegh.  They  were  fre 
quently  together.  But  tell  me  how  you  found  them." 

"Through  that  advertisement,  of  course." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.     But  how?" 

"Well,  Stuart  answered  my  advertisement  by  coming  in 
person  to  my  hotel ;  finding  me  out,  he  left  a  note  with  his 
address,  asking  me  to  call  there.  I  got  that  note  when  I 
came  in,  and  immediately  started  out  to  see  my  cousins.  I 
found  them  in  an  elegant  little  flat,  their  rooms  almost  as 
charming  as  themselves.  I  spent  the  afternoon  with  them, 
dined  with  them,  went  to  the  theater  with  them,  supped 
with  them,  and  only  left  them  in  the  Vee  sma'  hours'  of 
the  morning.  And  I  could  not  sleep  for  happiness  in  the 
thought  of  having  found  my  kindred,  and  such  delightful 
kindred !  Then  as  soon  as  possible  this  morning  I  came  to 
tell  you  the  good  news." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Hay!  I  have  lost  sight 
of  Mr.  Stuart  for  the  last  six  months." 

"That  is  just  as  long  as  they  have  been  married.   They 


64  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

were  married  on  the  first  of  May  last,  and  spent  the  whole 
season  at  some  place  up  the  Hudson,  and  have  only  been  in 
town  for  a  few  weeks.  And  I  do  not  think  she  knows  a 
soul  here!"  said  Ran  with  a  pleading  look  in  his  soft,  dark 
eyes  that  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  have  spoken : 

•'"'Won't  you  please  to  take  the  dear  little  one  under  your 
wing?" 

Mrs.  Walling  replied  just  as  if  he  had  spoken  his  plea. 

"Yes,  certainly,  I  will  call  on  Mrs.  Stuart  with  great 
pleasure  if  you  will  give  me  her  address." 

''When?  Oh,  when?"  demanded  Ran  with  more  eager 
ness  than  politeness.  And  then  suddenly  remembering 
himself  he  said:  "Oh,  I  beg  pardon." 

"Why,  any  time — this  week,  to-morrow,  to-day,  if  you 
like.  Yes,  to-day,  it  will  be  just  as  convenient  as  any  other 
day.  Will  you  escort  me,  Mr.  Hay  ?"  said  the  lady. 

"Oh,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  and  gratitude,  ma'am. 
You  are  very  kind." 

Mrs.  Walling  touched  a  bell,  which  brought  a  servant  to 
the  room.  She  ordered  her  carriage  to  be  brought  to 
the  door,  and  then  turning  to  young  Hay,  said : 

"If  you  will  remain  here  until  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and 
wraps  I  will  not  keep  you  long." 

Ran  rose  and  bowed,  and  Mrs.  Walling  left  the  room. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Ran  handed  the  lady  into  her  car 
riage,  entered  after  her,  and  gave  the  order : 

"To  the  Alto  Flats." 

The  truth  is  that  Mrs.  Samuel  Walling  was  impelled  by 
curiosity  as  well  as  by  neighborly  kindness  in  thus  promptly 
going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart. 

A  half  hour's  drive  brought  them  to  the  flats. 

Leaving  Mrs.  Walling  in  the  carriage,  but  taking  her 
card,  he  entered  the  office  of  the  house  and  gave  it,  with  his 
own,  to  the  janitor's  boy,  who  took  them  upstairs. 

In  five  minutes  the  boy  came  down  and  reported  that 
Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart  was  at  home,  and  would  the  gentleman 
and  lady  come  up? 

Ran  returned  to  the  carriage,  assisted  Mrs.  Walling  to 
alight,  and  conducted  her  into  the  house;  they  entered  the 
elevator  and  were  soon  "landed"  at  the  door  of  the  private 
hall  leading  into  the  Stuarts'  suite  of  apartments. 

The  boy  opened  the  parlor  door  and  they  entered. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  65 

Palma,  neatly  dressed  in  her  well-worn,  best  suit  of  crim 
son  cashmere,  with  its  narrow,  white  frills  at  throat  and 
wrists,  and  her  curly,  black  hair  lightly  shading  her  fore 
head,  arose  from  her  chair  and  came  forward  with  shy  grace 
to  receive  her  visitors. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Samuel  Walling,  dear  Cousin  Palma.  She 
does  me  the  honor  to  be  my  good  friend.  Mrs.  Walling,  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart,"  said  Kan,  going  through  the  in 
troduction  as  well  as  he  could. 

Palma  put  out  her  hand  shyly,  half  in  doubt  whether  she 
should  do  so  or  not,  and  murmured : 

"I  am  very  happy  to  see  you,  madam." 

But  Mrs.  Walling  took  her  hand  with  a  frank  and  cordial 
smile  and  said : 

"  I  am  delighted  to  know  you !  I  should  have  recognized 
you  without  an  introduction,  anywhere,  from  your  likeness 
to  your  cousin  here !  Why,  you  might  be  twins." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  three  friends  were  seated  and  talk 
ing  as  freely  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  all  their  lives. 

Evidently  the  two  women  were  mutually  pleased  with 
each  other. 

While  they  conversed  Cleve  Stuart  came  in  from  his 
daily,  fruitless  quest  after  employment. 

He  looked  surprised  and  pleased  to  see  Mrs.  Walling  with 
his  wife,  and  warmly  shook  hands  with  her,  expressing  his 
satisfaction  at  meeting  her  again  after  so  long  an  interval 
of  time. 

"It  was  your  own  fault,  Mr.  Stuart.  You  should  have 
sent  an  old  friend  your  wedding  cards,"  said  the  lady, 
laughing. 

"We  had  none,  madam.  My  little  girl  was  an  invalid, 
and  our  wedding  was  a  very  quiet  one  at  Lull's,  where  I  had 
taken  her  for  a  change  of  air,"  replied  Stuart. 

"I  will  not  excuse  you,  sir.  On  your  return  to  the  city 
with  your  sweet,  young  wife,  you  should  have  sent  me  your 
address,  that  I  might  have  called  sooner.  I  hold  that  you 
have  deprived  me  of  some  weeks'  enjoyment  I  should  other 
wise  have  had  in  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart." 

"Then  I  have  no  more  to  say,  dear  madam,  but  to  throw 
myself  upon  your  mercy,"  replied  Stuart  as  he  seated  him 
self  near  the  group. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walling,  turning  to 


66  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Palma,  "we  must  make  up  for  lost  time  by  becoming  at 
once  very  intimate  friends.  Now,  will  you  come  and  take 
tea  with  me  to-morrow  at  six  o'clock?  Not  a  fashionable 
tea,  dear  child,  at  which  hundreds  of  people  sip  Oolong  or 
Gunpowder  out  of  dolls'  china  cups,  but  a  real  unfashion 
able  tea  party  of  ten  or  a  dozen  intimate  friends,  who  as 
semble  at  'early  candle-light/  and  sit  comfortably  down  to 
a  long  table — a  custom  of  my  grandmother's  that  I  loved 
in  my  childhood,  and  brought  with  me  from  old  Maryland 
to  this  city,  and  indulge  in  whenever  I  can  with  some  of  my 
friends.  Will  you  come,  you  and  Mr.  Stuart,  dear?" 

"With  much  pleasure,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Palma, 
speaking  for  both. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  my  friend,  Mrs.  Duncan,  and  one 
or  two  other  good  people." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  madam,"  said  Palma  shyly. 

"She  will  be  glad  to  make  friends  among  your  friends, 
Mrs.  Walling,  for  she  is  almost  a  stranger  here,"  added 
Stuart. 

"Very  well,  then,  to-morrow  afternoon,  at  six  o'clock," 
concluded  the  lady,  and  she  arose  to  take  her  leave. 

Ran  shook  hands  with  his  cousins  and  escorted  Mrs.  Wall 
ing  back  to  her  carriage,  and  would  have  bid  her  good-by 
at  the  door,  but  that  the  lady  said: 

"Come  in  here,  Mr.  Hay.  I  want  to  have  more  talk 
with  you." 

Ban  obeyed. 

When  they  were  seated  and  were  well  on  their  way  along 
the  avenue  Mrs.  Walling  said : 

"I  have  heard  from  our  friends  at  the  fort  but  once  since 
your  arrival,  Mr.  Hay!  The  letter  of  introduction  you 
brought  is  the  last,  except  a  card,  I  have  had  from  Mrs. 
Moselejr,  and  never  has  so  long  an  interval  passed  without 
hearing  from  her." 

"And  you  answered  her  last  letter,  dear  madam?" 

"Of  course  I  did,  immediately,  and  have  written  one  or 
two  since.  Have  you  heard  from  them,  Mr.  Hay?" 

"Not  for  two  weeks !  And  I  should  be  very  anxious  if  I 
did  not  know  that  they  must  have  written.  The  mails  in 
that  unsettled  region  are  very  irregular,  often  delayed  and 
sometimes  lost.  That  condition  of  affairs  out  there  ex 
plains  an  apparent  silence  that  might  otherwise  make  me 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  67 

seriously  anxious.  We  shall  get  letters  by  and  by,  Mrs. 
Walling,  for  every  mail  is  not  lost." 

"Well,  I  hope  they  got  my  letters. " 

"They  must  have  received  every  one^  though  we  have  got 
none,"  replied  Ran. 

When  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  W  ailing  house  and 
Ran  had  helped  the  lady  to  alight  and  escorted  her  to  her 
own  door,  he  would  have  taken  leave,  but  she  insisted  that 
he  should  enter  with  her  and  remain  for  dinner. 

There  he  spent  the  evening,  after  dinner  taking  a  hand 
in  a  rubber  of  whist  with  Mrs.  Walling  and  the  two  Messrs. 
Walling. 

That  same  night  Mr.  Samuel  Walling  left  by  the  late 
train  for  Washington  to  see  the  British  minister.  He  ex 
pected  to  be  back  in  three  days. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Walling  sent  out  her  few  invita 
tions  to  intimate  friends  for  her  entertainment.  It  was 
only  under  certain  conditions  that  the  lady  could  indulge 
in  the  practical  reminiscence  of  her  childhood,  represented 
by  this  old-fashioned  tea  party,  which,  when  it  occurred, 
always  superseded  the  late  dinner;  and  the  first  of  these 
conditions  was  the  absence  of  her  husband,  who  could  never 
give  up  a  dinner  for  a  tea,  no  matter  how  abundantly  the 
table  for  the  latter  might  be  spread. 

Mr.  Walling's  journey  to  Washington  furnished  her  op 
portunity  on  this  occasion.  So,  early  in  the  morning,  she 
sent  out  about  half  a  dozen  little  cocked-hat  notes  of  in 
vitation  to  some  of  her  old  friends  not  among  the  most 
fashionable  of  her  acquaintances.  And  all  who  were  disen 
gaged  accepted  at  once.  Among  these  was  good  little  Mrs. 
Duncan,  and  old  Mrs.  Murphy,  and  Miss  Christiansen — all 
pleasant  people. 

At  six  o'clock  her  guests  began  to  arrive — only  eight  in 
number,  including  the  hostess.  Six  of  these  were  ladies, 
the  only  gentlemen  present  being  Mr.  Cleve  Stuart,  Mr. 
Randolph  Hay  and  Mr.  Roger  Duncan. 

The  elegant  and  luxurious  "tea"  was  as  abundant  and 
varied  as  any  dinner  need  be,  and  much  more  dainty  than 
any  dinner  can  be.  It  was  not  a  full-dress  party,  nor  a 
ceremonious  occasion;  so  both  before  and  after  tea  there 
was  some  card  playing  and  much  gossip. 

Mr.  Stuart  and  Mr.  Duncan,  with  Miss  Christiansen  and 


68  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Mrs.  Murphy,  sat  down  to  a  rubber  of  whist.  Mrs.  Walling, 
Mrs.  Duncan,  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Mr.  Hay  sat  near  each  other 
in  a  group  and  gossiped  with  all  their  might  and  main. 

Mrs.  Duncan  was  the  principal  talker;  and  after  telling 
many  a  spicy  but  harmless  bit  of  news,  she  took  up  the  story 
of  her  protegee,  Jennie  Montgomery,  and  soon  interested  all 
her  hearers  in  it.  The  facts  were  new  to  them  all  except 
to  herself  and  Mrs.  Murphy. 

"What  puzzled  me  about  the  young  thing  was  this:  That 
while  she  had  lost  every  particle  of  respect  and  affection  for 
her  would-be  murderer,  she  persisted  in  shielding  him  from 
justice.  Now,  I  can  understand  a  woman  shielding  a  crim 
inal  whom  she  has  loved,  and  still  loves;  but  I  cannot 
understand  her  protecting  an  assassin  who  has  aimed  at 
her  life,  and  whom  she  fears  and  abhors !" 

Then  Palma's  eyes  began  to  sparkle.  She  had  her  little 
story  to  tell,  too.  And  she  wanted  to  tell  it. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  slip  into 
the  busy  conversation — "do  you  know  that  my  husband  was 
arrested  by  mistake  for  Capt.  Kightly  Montgomery,  and 
held  for  a  murderous  assault,  until  he  could  prove  his  iden 
tity  by  competent  witnesses  ?" 

The  ladies,  startled  by  this  information,  made  little,  low 
exclamations  of  surprise. 

"Your  husband  was  one  of  the  witnesses,  Mrs.  Walling," 
continued  Palma,  pleased  with  herself  that  she  could  con 
tribute  some  little  item  of  interest  to  the  conversation. 

"Oh,  yes !  I  think  I  remember  hearing  something  about 
some  one  being  arrested  by  mistake,  charged  with  something 
or  other,  and  Mr.  Walling  being  called  as  a  witness  to  prove 
the  accused  to  be  some  other  than  the  man  wanted;  but, 
really,  now,  there  are  so  many  sensational  items  in  the  daily 
papers  that  one  shoves  the  other  from  the  memory.  So  it 
was  Mr.  Cleve  Stuart,  was  it?  Pleasant  for  him/'  said 
Mrs.  Walling. 

;'And  it  was  really  your  husband,  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  was 
taken  to  the  woman's  ward  of  the  hospital  to  be  identified 
by  Jennie  Montgomery!  I  heard  all  about  it  at  the  time, 
but  I  had  forgotten  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  had 
been  arrested  by  mistake,"  said  Mrs.  Duncan,  taking  a  good 
look  at  Stuart,  who  was  in  a  fine  light  for  the  view,  seated 
at  the  card  table  immediately  under  a  chandelier.  "And 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  69 

there  certainly  is  a  very  striking  likeness  between  him  and 
the  miniature  of  the  young  woman's  murderous  husband/' 
she  concluded. 

And  then  all  the  other  ladies  turned  and  gazed  at  Stuart, 
who  was  blissfully  unconscious  of  the  severe  scrutiny. 

"But  though  there  is  a  striking  likeness,  there  is  also  a 
very  great  difference/'  resumed  Mrs.  Duncan.  "But  you 
can  see  for  yourselves.  By  the  merest  chance  I  have  that 
miniature  in  rny  pocket." 

"Oh,  do  let  us  see  it,  dear  Mrs.  Duncan,  do!"  pleaded 
Palma,  eager  to  behold  the  likeness  that  had  led  to  her 
husband's  false  arrest. 

"Yes,  my  dear;  but  first  let  me  tell  you  how  I  happen  to 
have  it  in  my  possession,  and  also  to  have  it  with  me  here. 
Mrs.  Montgomery  spent  the  last  ten  days  of  her  stay  in  the 
city  in  my  house.  The  miniature  which  had  been  found  in 
her  possession  when  the  police  searched  her  room,  and  had 
been  used  in  the  vain  effort  to  trace  her  assailant,  was  at 
length  restored  to  her.  And  to  show  how  entirely  she  had 
ceased  to  care  for  the  man  who  tried  to  murder  her,  she 
actually  forgot  his  picture,  and  left  it  behind  in  her  bureau 
drawer.  I  never  chanced  to  find  it  until  this  morning ;  and 
as  I  was  coming  out,  I  thought  I  would  do  it  up  and  send  it 
out  to  her  by  mail.  So  I  put  it  in  a  small  box,  directed  and 
sealed  it  and  put  it  in  my  pocket  with  the  intention  of 
posting  it,  and  then — forgot  all  about  it  until  now.  Now 
you  shall  see  it." 

She  drew  a  small  pasteboard  box  from  her  pocket,  broke 
the. seals,  opened  it  and  took  out  a  small  morocco  case,  which 
she  also  opened  and  handed  to  Palma. 

"There  is  a  slight  resemblance.  Only  a  very  slight  one. 
I  do  not  see  how  any  one  could  mistake  this  sinister-looking 
face  for  a  miniature  of  T^'r.  Stuart.  Now,  do  you,  Mrs. 
Walling?"  said  Palma  with  an  aggrieved  air  as  she  passed 
the  picture  to  her  friend  and  hostess. 

"  There  is  a  very  wonderful  likeness  to  my  eyes,  my  dear, 
in  features,  hair,  complexion  and  all — except  expression." 

"And  expression  is  everything.  I  see  scarcely  any  like 
ness  myself,"  persisted  Palma. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  it?"  Ran  inquired. 

Mrs.  Walling  placed  it  in  his  hand. 


70  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Now,  do  you  see  any  likeness  between  that  ill  face  and 
Cleve's  ?"  inquired  Palma,  appealing  to  her  cousin. 

"Not  the  least!"  exclaimed  Ran  on  the  first  cursory 
glance  at  the  miniature.  Then  holding  it  closer  and  gazing 
more  attentively  he  exclaimed  suddenly: 

"Why,  I  know  this  fellow!  It  is  Gentleman  Geff,  as  he 
appeared  when  he  first  came  to  Grizzly,  before  he  shaved  his 
mustache  off  and  let  his  beard  grow  !  It's  Gentleman  Geff !" 

"  ' Gentleman  Geff !'  "  echoed  all  the  ladies,  except  Mrs. 
Walling,  who  took  the  picture  and  gazed  at  it  in  silence  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  returning  it,  said : 

"Yes!  I  see  now!  So  it  is!  Though  the  full  beard 
made  so  great  a  difference  that  even  the  likeness  did  not 
occur  to  me.  Excuse  me  one  moment,  friends.  I  will  re 
turn  directly."  And  she  hastily  left  the  room. 

Ran  could  scarcely  get  over  his  astonishment  at  his  dis 
covery.  Gentleman  Geff,  the  very  fine  dude  who  had  seemed 
too  dainty  for  any  of  the  rudenesses  of  life,  yet  who  had 
treacherously  shot  him  in  the  woods,  robbed  him  of  his 
documents,  and  possessed  himself  of  his  estates,  was  also 
the  man  who  had  attempted  the  murder  of  his  own  wife  and 
feloniously  married  another  woman ! 

"But  who  is  Gentleman  Geff?"  inquired  Palma,  Mrs. 
Duncan  and  Miss  Christiansen,  in  a  breath. 

"Please  wait  a  little,  ladies,  until  the  return  of  Mrs. 
Walling.  Perhaps  she  will  inform  you,  or  allow  me  to  tell 
you,  who  he  is,"  said  Ran  respectfully,  and  even  depreca- 
tingly. 

Mrs.  Walling  returned  with  what  might  be  called  Mr. 
Walling\s  professional  photograph  album  in  her  hand. 

She  opened  it  at  a  certain  page  and  pointed  out  a  face 
and  said: 

"Look  at  that  and  compare  it  with  the  miniature,  and 
then  tell  me  if  the  two  are  not  likenesses  of  the  same  person, 
notwithstanding  the  difference  made  by  the  mustache  on 
one  face  and  the  full  beard  on  the  other." 

She  had  handed  the  two  pictures  first  to  Palma,  who 
gazed  for  a  moment,  and  then  nodded  assent,  and  passed 
them  around  to  her  companions. 

"But  who  is  the  man?"  inquired  Mrs.  Duncan,  while 
Palma  and  Miss  Christiansen  seconded  the  question  by  their 
eager  looks. 


FOB  WHOSE  SAKE?  71 

"Friends,  lie  was  one  of  Messrs.  Wallings'  clients,  but  is 
so  no  longer.  He  has  managed  to  deceive  two  astute  law 
yers,  to  impose  upon  society,  to  get  hold  of  a  name  and  an 
estate  that  does  not  belong  to  him,  and  to  marry  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  country  and  take  her  off  to  Europe 
in  triumph,  while  his  own  deserted  wife  and  child,  whom 
he  believed  he  had  safely  disposed  of  by  murder,  sailed  with 
him  in  the  same  ship,  unsuspected  by  him,  unsuspicious, 
also,  it  seems,  of  her  faithless,  murderous  husband's  pres 
ence  there.  He  is  an  adventurer  of  many  aliases,  a  gambler, 
a  forger,  a  swindler,  a  perjurer,  a  bigamist  and  an  assassin." 

Mrs.  Walling  paused  a  moment  to  look  upon  her  shocked 
audience,  and  then  continued: 

"That  is  the  man.  What  his  name  is  I  cannot  tell  you. 
We  knew  him  as  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  of  Haymore.  You 
have  all  heard  of  him  under  that  name,  and  the  eclat  of  the 
splendid  festivities  at  the  Vansitart  mansion  on  the  occasion 
of  his  marriage  with  Miss  Leegh  has  scarcely  died  away. 
Jennie  Montgomery  knew  him  as  Capt.  Kightly  Mont 
gomery  ;  my  young  friend,  Mr.  Hay,  knew  him  as  Geoffrey 
Delamere,  Esq. ;  and  gamblers  of  Grizzly  Gulch  as  Gentle 
man  Geff." 

She  paused  again  to  mark  the  effect  of  her  words. 

But  no  one  spoke;  the  women  were  shocked  into  silence 
and  pallor.  At  length,  however,  Ran  murmured: 

"This  is  too  horrible!" 

"You  know  that  the  man  whom  society  has  been  lionizing 
for  the  last  six  months  is  a  fraudulent  claimant  of  the  Hay- 
more  estate ;  you  should  also  know  that  this  gentleman  here, 
whom  I  introduced  to  you  as  simply  Mr.  Hay,  is  really  the 
true  Randolph  Hay,  of  Ha}^more,  and  a  few  weeks  at 
furthest  will  see  him  invested  with  his  manor." 

Mrs.  Duncan  and  Miss  Christiansen  both  turned  to  con 
gratulate  Ran,  who  laughed  and  blushed  like  a  girl  at  the 
honor  due  him. 

"  Four  by  honors  and  six  by  tricks,  and  we  have  beat  the 
rubber !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Roger  Duncan,  rising  in  triumph 
from  the  whist  table  and  breaking  in  upon  the  gravity  of 
the  circle  collected  around  the  fire. 

Xo  one  of  that  circle  thought  of  speaking  to  the  others 
of  their  discovery  through  the  miniature  and  photograph. 

And  soon  the  company  broke  up. 


72  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

CHAPTER  VIII 

UNEXPECTED  ARRIVALS 

FROM  this  day  forth  the  life  of  Cleve  and  Palma 
changed.  They  made  friends  and  went  much  into  company 
through  the  introductions  of  Mrs.  Walling.  They  were 
young  and  innocently  fond  of  gayety,  and  they  were  led  on 
by  Kan,  who  was  liberally  supplied  with  money  advanced 
by  his  solicitors,  and  who,  from  being  a  daily  visitor  at 
their  apartments,  had  at  last  taken  up  his  abode  under  the 
same  roof  for  the  sake  of  being  nearer  to  them  until  he 
should  sail  for  England,  accompanied  by  Mr.  William  Wall 
ing. 

Unfortunately,  neither  Randolph  Hay  nor  the  Wallings 
suspected  the  impoverished  condition  of  their  new  friends, 
else  they  would  not  have  tempted  or  led  the  young  pair 
into  a  way  of  life  so  much  above  their  means. 

As  it  was,  their  scanty  little  fund  had  to  be  drawn  upon 
for  such  additions  to  Palma's  toilet,  and  even  to  Cleve's,  in 
the  way  of  nice  boots  and  fresh  gloves,  that  seemed  really 
indispensable  to  them  when  they  went  out  in  the  evening. 
Had  Palma  even  suspected  their  own  poverty  she  would  not 
have  gone  anywhere  if  it  cost  money  to  go  there.  But, 
unsuspicious  as  she  was,  believing,  as  she  did,  that  her  hus 
band  was  in  very  easy  circumstances,  she  went  out  a  great 
deal ;  and  Cleve,  seeing  how  much  she  enjoyed  society,  had 
not  the  heart  to  check  her  enjoyment  by  telling  her  the 
truth. 

Only  gloves  and  boots  and  car  fare  her  pleasures  cost 
them.  She  had  two  dresses,  the  crimson  cashmere,  much 
worn,  but  carefully  preserved,  and  often  cleaned  and  re 
paired  for  continual  use  by  the  careful  hands  of  Mrs.  Pole. 
This  was  her  dress  for  dinners  and  afternoon  teas.  Her 
white  India  muslin — her  confirmation  robe,  and  afterward 
her  wedding  suit — was  now  her  only  evening  dress.  Neither 
of  these  were  at  all  stylish,  but  they  were  neat  and  clean; 
and  then  her  boots  and  gloves  were  perfectly  fitting,  fresh 
and  faultless. 

Every  day  Cleve  went  forth  to  seek  employment,  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  73 

every  night  returned  disappointed  to  find  himself  poorer  by 
the  day's  expenditures  than  he  had  been  the  day  before. 

Everything  was  going  out  and  nothing  coming  in;  and 
yet  he  shrank  from  saying  to  Palma : 

"We  cannot  afford  another  pair  of  new  gloves  even, 
dear,"  or  to  do  anything  but  smile  in  her  'face  when  she 
would  only  ask  him  to  go  with  her  to  a  lunch  party  at  Mrs. 
Duncan's,  or  to  a  five-o'clock  tea  at  Miss  Christiansen's. 

If  Ran  had  only  known  their  straits  as  he  bounded  daily 
up  and  down  the  stairs,  too  full  of  life  and  energy  to  avail 
himself  of  the  elevator,  how  gladly,  how  joyously,  would  he 
have  poured  into  his  cousin's  lap  wealth  from  his  own  abun 
dant  means,  nor  ever  dreamed  of  offering  offense  in  prof 
fering  what  he  himself,  in  their  reversed  circumstances, 
would  have  been  frankly  willing  to  receive  from  them. 

But  he  knew  nothing,  suspected  nothing,  of  their  pov 
erty;  and  even  if  he  had  known,  and  had  offered  to  give 
assistance,  Cleve  Stuart,  in  his  spirit  of  pride  or  independ 
ence,  would  have  refused  it. 

Ran  held  firmly  to  his  purpose  of  giving  his  cousin  a  fair 
share  of  their  grandfather's  estate,  as  soon  as  he  himself 
should  be  put  in  lawful  possession,  which  was  only  a  ques 
tion  of  a  few  weeks'  time ;  but  he  said  nothing  more  about 
it  to  either  Palma  or  Cleve.  He  thought  they  understood 
his  intentions,  and  believed  in  them,  and  that  it  would  be 
in  bad  taste  to  refer  to  them  again.  Besides,  he  did  not 
suspect  how  dark  the  future  looked  to  one  of  them  at  least, 
and  what  a  source  of  anxiety  it  was. 

What  the  young  pair  really  thought  of  their  cousin's  offer 
to  share,  was  just  this — that  it  had  been  made,  not  from  a 
delicate  sense  of  justice  that  would  stand  the  test  of  time 
and  opportunity,  but  from  a  sudden  impulse  of  generosity 
that  might  yield  to  cool  afterthought.  Neither  of  them 
placed  much  reliance  on  the  offer,  especially  as  they  had 
repudiated  it  at  the  time,  and  Ran  had  never  renewed  it. 

The  day  for  young  Hay's  departure  for  England  was  at 
length  fixed.  He  was  to  sail  on  the  second  of  December. 
It  had  been  first  suggested  that  Mr.  Samuel  Walling  should 
attend  him  to  England,  and  introduce  him  personally  to  the 
London  solicitors  of  the  Hays  of  Haymore;  but,  as  usual, 
Mr.  Will  put  in  his  plea  of  overwork,  brain  exhaustion, 
want  of  change,  and  so  on,  and,  as  usual,  his  claim  was 


74  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

allowed,  and  it  was  decided  that  lie  should  accompany  the 
young  heir. 

The  aged  priest,  Father  Pedro  de  Leon,  having  under 
oath  testified  to  the  identity  of  Randolph  Hay,  had  bidden 
an  affectionate  good-by  to  his  pupil  and  returned  to  his 
flock  in  San  Francisco. 

It  was  remarkable  that  while  Mr.  Sam  Walling,  the  head 
of  the  iirin  of  Walling  &  Walling,  took  all  the  heaviest  re 
sponsibilities,  did  all  the  hardest  work,  seldom  left  his  desk 
during  the  office  hours,  and  never  left  the  city  except  on 
business,  Mr.  Will,  the  junior  partner,  required  all  the 
relaxation  in  frequent  visits  to  Newport  and  Saratoga  dur 
ing  the  summer  months,  and  Washington  and  even  Savan 
nah  during  the  winter  season.  And  now  it  seemed  absolutely 
necessary  that  Mr.  Will  should  have  a  sea  voyage  to  restore 
the  shaken  equilibrium  of  his  overtasked  mind  and  body. 

"That's  just  it !"  Mrs.  Walling  said  one  day  to  Ran  when 
speaking  of  the  trip  to  England.  "Our  firm,  as  a  firm,  is 
always  full  of  work,  yet  manages  to  have  a  good  deal  of 
play  also;  only  Sam  takes  the  work  and  Will  the  play." 

As  the  month  of  November  drew  to  a  close  and  the  day 
of  his  departure  came  near,  Ran  grew  more  and  more  un 
easy.  He  had  not  heard  a  word  from  Judy  for  more  than 
three  weeks,  though  in  that  time  he  had  written  so  many 
letters ;  nor  had  Mrs.  Walling  lately  heard  from  Mrs.  Mose- 
ley. 

Ran  was  not  of  a  temperament  to  borrow  trouble.  Quite 
the  contrary ;  he  always  looked  on  the  bright  side.  He  was 
willing  to  make  every  allowance  for  the  well-known  uncer 
tainty  of  the  mails  in  those  unsettled  regions  guarded  by 
the  frontier  forts ;  but  still  it  seemed  strange  and  alarming 
that  for  a  month  past  no  mail  had  come  safely  through 
contingent  dangers. 

His  greatest  anxiety  now  was  that  he  should  have  to  sail 
for  Europe  without  having  heard  from  Judy. 

He  confided  his  trouble  to  Cleve  and  Palma,  with  whom 
he  now  spent  every  evening  whenever  they  were  at  home. 

One  evening,  about  a  week  before  he  was  to  sail,  he  was 
sitting  with  Cleve  and  Palma  in  their  tiny  parlor. 

Cleve  had  been  reading  aloud,  but  laid  down  his  book  on 
the  entrance  of  Ran.  Palma  was  knitting  a  woolen  wristlet, 
the  last  of  four  pair  that  she  had  been  making  for  Cleve  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  75 

Mrs.  Pole,  and  she  continued  to  knit  after  greeting  her 
-cousin. 

Ban  brought  a  chair  to  the  little  table  at  which  the  other 
two  sat,  threw  himself  into  it,  sighed  and  said : 

"This  is  Saturday  night,  the  twenty-fifth,  and  in  one 
week  from  to-day,  on  Saturday,  the  second  of  December,  I 
must  sail  for  England." 

"Yes,  Cousin  Eandolph,  I  know.  And  I  am  very  sorry  it 
should  be  necessary  that  you  should  have  to  go — very.  But 
you  will  soon  return/'  sympathetically  replied  Palma. 

"It  is  about  Judy,"  frankly  exclaimed  Ean.  "I  have  not 
had  a  letter  from  her  for  nearly  a  month." 

"But  you  yourself  have  told  us  of  the  uncertainty  of  the 
mails." 

"Yes,  and  that  might  have  been  an  explanation,  and 
therefore  a  kind  of  comfort,  for  failing  to  get  a  single  letter 
in  time.  But  when  three  or  four  that  I  should  have  got 
have  failed  to  come,  it  is  strange  and  alarming." 

Neither  Cleve  nor  Palma  found  anything  to  answer  to 
this.  They  knew  and  felt  that  it  was  both  "strange  and 
alarming." 

"Let  us  hope  that  you  will  get  a  letter  within  a  few 
days,"  at  length  ventured  Stuart. 

"Why,  you  may  get  one  even  to-morrow,"  hopefully  ex 
claimed  Palma. 

"  Oh,  yes !  And  I  may  have  to  sail  for  England  in  the 
most  agonizing  anxiety  as  to  Judy's  fate!"  said  Ean  with 
a  profound  sigh. 

"But  there  is  no  reason  for  such  an  intense  anxiety.  She 
is  in  excellent  hands,"  said  Palma. 

"  Oh !  but  when  I  came  away  there  was  a  talk  of  the  in 
tended  rising  of  the  Indians !  Good  Heaven !  the  fort  may 
have  been  stormed  and  all  hands  massacred  for  all  I  know  !" 
exclaimed  the  youth,  growing  pallid  at  the  very  thought. 

"Eandolph!"  cried  Palma  in  horror. 

"Nothing  of  that  sort  could  have  happened  without  our 
having  heard  of  it  before  this.  The  authorities  at  Washing 
ton  would  have  received  the  news,  and  it  would  have  been 
in  all  the  papers.  Some  survivor  would  have  escaped  to  the 
nearest  telegraph  station  and  sent  the  message  flying  to 
Washington,"  said  Cleve. 

"  Oh,  yes — certainly.    But  I  never  thought  of  that !    It  is 


76  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

a  real  relief  to  me !  I  hope  I  may  get  a  letter  before  I  go ! 
If  I  do  not,  and  could  have  my  own  way,  I  would  sacrifice 
the  passage  and  wait  here  until  I  could  hear  from  Judy. 
But  Mr.  Walling  says  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  go  no  later  certainly  than  the  day  set  for  sailing." 

"But  if  a  letter  should  come  we  will  immediately  send  it 
after  you,"  said  Palma. 

"Thank  you,  cousin,  dear;  I  know  that  you  will  do  all 
that  you  can.  Well,  I  have  learned  one  lesson  from  all 
this,"  said  Ran  so  solemnly  that  both  his  companions  looked 
up  inquiringly,  and  Palma  asked : 

"What  is  it,  Cousin  Randolph?" 

"It  is  this:  If  Heaven  ever  should  bring  my  dear  Judy 
and  myself  together  again  I  will  never  part  with  her — no, 
never  while  we  both  shall  live !  Nothing  shall  ever  part  us 
again  except  the  will  of  Heaven !" 

"But  how  about  school  and  college  that  was  to  have  pre 
pared  you  both  for  the  sphere  of  life  to  which  you  are 
called?"  Palma  inquired  with  some  little  amusement. 

^Oh,  bother  that!  It  was  all  the  nonsense  about  'the 
sphere  of  life  to  which  we  are  called'  that  parted  Judy  and 
me!  And  it  shall  never  part  us  again!  We  will  go  to 
school  and  college,  but  we  need  not  part  and  live  in  school 
and  college.  We  will  marry  and  go  to  housekeeping  in  some 
city  where  there  are  educational  advantages.  I  will  attend 
the  college  courses.  Judy  shall  have  teachers  at  homo. 
And  so  we  will  live  until  we  are  polished  up  bright  enough 
to  show  ourselves  to  my  grandfather's  neighbors  and  tenants 
at  Haymore.  Then  we  will  settle  there  for  good,  and  no  one 
will  ever  know  that  the  successors  of  Squire  Hay  were  first 
of  all  a  pair  of  little  ragamuffins  and  ignoramuses  from  a 
California  mining  camp !  Yes,  that  is  what  I  will  do,  and 
no  prudence,  and  no  policy,  and  no  consideration  for  'that 
sphere  of  life  to  which  we  are  called/  nor  for  anything 
else  but  Judy  herself,  shall  influence  me!  When  we  meet 
again  we  shall  be  married  out  of  hand  and  nothing  but 
death  shall  part  us  !  When  we  meet  again  !  But  when  will 
that  be  ?  Ah,  me  I"  sighed  poor  Ean. 

There  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  the  "boy"  put  in  his 
head  and  said : 

"The  lady  and  ge'men  would  come  up,  sir,  which  they 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  77 

said  there  wasn't  no  call  to  send  up  no  card,"  then  with 
drew  his  head  and  ran  away. 

The  three  cousins  looked  up  to  see  a  tall,  martial-looking 
man  with  a  gray  mustache,  and  clothed  in  a  military  over 
coat  and  fatigue  cap,  enter  the  room  with  a  slender,  grace 
ful  girl,  in  a  long  gray  cloth  ulster  and  a  little  gray  plush 
hat,  hanging  on  his  arm. 

The  three  companions  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Ran  sprang  up,  overturning  his  chair  in  his  haste,  and 
rushed  toward  them,  exclaiming: 

"Col.  Moseley!    Judy!    Oh,  Judy!" 

And  in  another  instant  Judy  was  pressed  to  his  heart. 

"Now,  introduce  us  to  your  friends,  Mr.  Hay,"  said  the 
colonel,  taking  off  his  cap  and  bowing  to  the  lady  and  gen 
tleman,  who  had  risen  to  their  feet  to  receive  the  unknown 
and  unexpected  guests. 

"Oh,  pardon  me,"  exclaimed  Ean,  raising  Judy,  drawing 
her  arm  through  his  own  and  taking  her  up  to  his  cousins. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart,  this  is  Miss  Judith  Man,  my  be 
trothed.  Judy,  darling,  these  are  my  Cousin  Palma  and  her 
husband,"  he  said. 

It  was  to  be  thought  that  the  young  girl  would  have  made 
her  quaint,  parish-school  courtesy;  but  she  did  not.  She 
bowed,  blushed  and  smiled  very  prettily.  Cleve  Stuart 
shook  hands  with  her  and  said  that  he  was  very  glad  to  see 
her.  But  Palma  drew  the  girl  to  her  bosom  and  kissed  her, 
with  a  few  murmured  words  of  welcome. 

Then  Ean  presented : 

"Col.  Moseley,  Mrs.  Stuart,  Mr.  Stuart." 

And  all  shook  hands  in  the  old-time,  cordial  manner. 

And  when  all  were  seated,  Col.  Moseley  in  Ran's  vacated 
chair  at  the  little  table  with  Cleve  and  Palma,  and  Ran 
and  Judy,  side  by  side,  on  the  little  sofa  near  them,  there 
came  the  natural  question  from  Stuart: 

"When  did  you  reach  New  York,  colonel?" 

"At  noon  to-day,"  replied  Moseley. 

"At  noon  to-day,  and  I  see  nothing  of  Judy  until  eight 
o'clock  this  evening!"  exclaimed  Ran. 

"Patience,  my  dear  fellow;  I  had  to  find  you  before  I 
could  bring  her.  I  arrived,  with  a  large  party,  at  noon,  as 
I  said ;  took  them  all  to  an  old-fashioned  hotel  downtown, 
where  the  prices  are  not  quite  ruinous;  left  them  all  there, 


78  FOE  WHOSE  SAKE? 

and  went  to  hunt  up  you  at  your  hotel,  found  that  you  had 
left  it,  but  could  not  find  out  where  you  had  gone;  went 
back  to  own  place  and  dined  with  my  family ;  after  dinner 
went  out  to  hunt  up  the  Wallings,  with  the  view  of  finding 
you,  and  also  of  finding  the  furnished  house  I  had  commis 
sioned  Walling  to  engage  for  me ;  looked  in  at  the  office  first, 
but  found  no  one  there  but  the  janitor  cleaning  up ;  office 
hours  were  over;  Mr.  Samuel  Walling  gone  home  to  his 
dinner;  got  his  address;  went  to  the  house;  found  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Samuel  Walling,  who  were  as  much  amazed  at  seeing 
me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost  risen  from  the  dead.  In  fact, 
they  had  not  got  my  letter  of  advice,  and,  consequently,  had 
not  engaged  any  furnished  house  for  my  tribe.  However, 
they  insisted  on  making  it  all  right  for  us.  They  told  me 
where  to  find  you,  Hay;  and  then  when  I  said  I  must  go 
back  to  the  hotel  to  pick  up  Judy,  Mrs.  Walling  insisted  on 
going  with  me  to  see  her  old  schoolmate  and  dear  friend, 
and  she  went  with  me.  Well,  in  brief,  when  she  met  my 
wife,  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  take  her  and  all  the 
girls  home  to  her  own  house  to  stay  until  we  can  find  a 
home  for  ourselves.  I  and  the  boys  remain  at  the  hotel. 
Judy  is  to  join  Mrs.  Moseley  and  the  girls  at  the  \Vallings'." 

"Indeed,  then,  Judy  is  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Judy  is 
to  stay  here  with  me.  I  am  her  natural  protector  under  the 
circumstances/''  said  little  Palma,  drawing  herself  up  with 
an  assumption  of  matronly  dignity  that  was  very  amusing 
to  the  colonel. 

"Very  well,  my  dear  lady.  It  shall  be  as  you  please,  or 
as  Miss  Judith  pleases;  only,  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall 
face  Mesdames  Walling  and  Moseley  without  taking  her  to 
them." 

"I  will  write  a  note  and  relieve  you  of  responsibility  in 
the  matter,"  exclaimed  Palma,  rising  and  going  toward  a 
little  writing-desk. 

"But  you  have  not  consulted  Miss  Judith,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"Oh,  I  know  she  will  stay  with  us,"  exclaimed  Palma, 
going  toward  the  girl  and  putting  her  arms  around  her 
neck  and  murmuring: 

"You  will  stay  with  us,  will  you  not,  dear  Judy?  I  may 
call  you  Jud}r,  may  I  not  ?  I  have  known  you  as  Judy,  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  79 

loved  you  as  Judy,  before  I  ever  saw  you.  Shall  I  call  you 
Judy?" 

"Sure  and  ye  may,,  ma'am!"  exclaimed  the  girl  with 
cordial  impetuosity ;  but  then,  catching  herself  up  suddenly,. 
she  blushed  and  added  soltly:  "If  you  please,  ma'am,  I 
should  like  you  to  call  me  so." 

Palma  smiled,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  then  went  to  her 
tiny  desk  and  wrote  the  note  to  Mrs.  Moseley. 

The  colonel  had  but  little  time  to  stay,  and  soon  arose  to 
say  good-night. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  had  almost  forgotten.  I  am 
the  bearer  of  an  invitation  for  you  all  to  come  and  dine  with 
us  at  Mrs.  Walling's  to-morrow,  at  seven." 

Palma  looked  at  her  husband,  understood  his  eyes,  and 
answered  for  both : 

"Love  to  Mrs.  Walling,  and  we  will  go  with  much 
pleasure." 

Col.  Moseley  shook  hands  all  around,  like  the  plain,  old- 
fashioned  soldier  that  he  was,  and  then  went  away. 

There  remained  Ran  and  Judy,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  and 
Cleve  and  Palma  at  the  table. 

The  lovers  were  comparing  notes,  giving  in  their  expe 
rience  of  the  time  while  they  were  separated,  speaking  in 
subdued  tones  that  presently  sank  so  low  as  to  be  quite  in 
audible  to  any  other  ears  than  their  own ;  so  it  might*  be 
surmised  that  Ran  was  imparting  to  Judy  his  new  scheme 
of  life  for  the  future. 

The  married  pair  at  the  table  with  the  truest  politeness 
ignored  the  presence  of  the  just  reunited  lovers,  and  took 
up  their  occupations  that  had  been  interrupted  by  the  vis 
itors.  Cleve  opened  his  book  and  resumed  his  reading,  but 
now  in  a  lower  tone,  quite  audible  to  Palma,  but  not  disturb 
ing  to  Ran  or  Judy.  He  was  reading  Marmion,  the  scene 
of  the  meeting  between  the  pilgrim  and  the  abbess  on  the 
balcony.  But  Palma,  knitting  mechanically,  could  not 
listen.  She  was  seized  with  a  terrible  anxiety  that  filled  her 
mind  and  crowded  out  everything  else.  She  had,  from  the 
impulse  of  a  warm  heart,  invited  Judy  to  stay,  and  Judy 
was  staying. 

But  where  on  the  face  of  the  earth  was  she  to  put  Judy  ? 
They  had  in  their  doll's  house  of  a  flat  but  four  tiny  rooms 
— parlor,  kitchen  and  two  bedrooms.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 


80  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

How  could  she  listen  to  the  story  the  abbess  was  telling  the 
pilgrim,  and  the  minutes  passing  so  rapidly,  and  bedtime 
coming  on,  and  no  bed  to  put  her  invited  guest  in  ?  And 
there  was  Cleve  utterly  unconscious  of  her  dilemma,  al 
though  he  knew  as  well  as  she  did  the  extent — or  rather 
limits — of  their  accommodation. 

Cleve  finished  the  canto  and  closed  the  book  in  compla 
cent  ignorance  that  Palma  had  not  heard  a  word  of  it. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  eleven.  It  was  a  cheap 
clock  and  it  struck  loudly. 

Kan  arose  to  bid  good-night. 

"I  really  ought  to  beg  your  pardon  for  keeping  you  up. 
But  you  will  excuse  me  for  this  once,"  he  said. 

"Why,  certainly!  Certainly!  Don't  go  yet.  We  shall 
not  retire  for  hours.  Oh,  pray  !  pray  !  don't  go  yet !"  pleaded 
Palma  with  her  curly  hair  fairly  stiffening  itself  on  end; 
for,  when  Ean  had  left,  what,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  was 
she  to  do  with  Judy?  Take  the  girl  in  with  herself  and 
Cleve?  Or  lay  her  over  Mrs.  Pole  on  that  narrow  slab  of  a 
cot  that  could  not  hold  two  side  by  side  ? 

Palma  had  got  into  a  terrible  dilemma  which  she  feared, 
by  the  creepy  coldness  of  her  scalp,  was  going  to  turn  her 
hair  white ! 

She  would  have  been  very  much  relieved  if — after  the  old- 
fashioned  New  England  style — the  betrothed  lovers  should 
sit  up  all  night. 

"Oh,  do,  do,  do  stay  longer!"  she  still  pleaded,  looking 
beseechingly  at  Ran. 

But  Ean  was  looking  at  his  sweetheart,  and  replied 
gravely : 

"  You  are  very  kind !  Too  kind !  And  I  thank  you  so 
much !  But,  even  for  Judy's  sake,  I  ought  to  go.  She  is 
very  tired  from  her  long  journey.  Good-night." 

And  he  turned  to  go,  Judy  following  him  to  the  door  of 
the  parlor,  where,  of  course,  they  lingered  over  their  adieus. 

Then  Stuart  got  a  chance  to  speak  apart  with  Palma.  He 
looked  into  her  dismayed  face  and  broke  into  a  little,  low 
laugh. 

"Oh !  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  shall  I  do?"  she  ex 
claimed,  clasping  her  hands  and  gazing  appealingly  up  into 
his  face. 

Then  he  pitied  her  evident  distress  and  answered : 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  81 

"Why,  dear,  you  will  have  to  share  your  own  bed  with 
Miss  Judy  and  give  me  a  rug  on  the  sofa." 

Her  face  brightened. 

"Oh,  Cleve!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  an  angel  of  light  in 
a  cutaway  coat !  You  have  saved  my  life — or  reason !" 

Then  suddenly  growing  grave  she  added: 

"But  the  little  sofa  is  so  short,  and  you  are  so  long !" 

"Now  don't  look  so  distressed,  dear.  The  inconvenience 
is  nothing  at  all.  And  it  is  only  for  one  night.  To-morrow 
I  will  see  the  janitor  and  try  to  get  a  room  for  our  little 
friend  contiguous  to  our  own,  so  that  she  may  remain  with 
us." 

Stuart  spoke  of  incurring  this  additional  expense  with  ap 
parent  cheerfulness,  although  his  small  funds  were  nearly 
exhausted,  and  his  efforts  to  procure  employment  were  quite 
fruitless. 

But  he  said  no  more  then,  for  Ran,  who  had  lingered  at 
the  door  over  his  last  words  with  Judy,  now  kissed  her 
good-night  and  went  away,  and  the  girl  rejoined  her  friends 
in  the  little  parlor. 


CHAPTER  IX 


"I  WILL  leave  you  for  half  an  hour  to  make  your  ar 
rangements,"  said  Stuart  to  his  wife;  and  he  left  the  room 
and  went  downstairs  and  out  upon  the  sidewalk  to  take 
the  air. 

Judy  had  thrown  herself  into  an  easy-chair  and  stretched 
out  her  feet  to  the  bright  little  fire. 

Palma  pushed  the  small  sofa  back  against  the  wall,  and 
then  went  into  the  bedroom,  from  which  she  brought  a  cush 
ion  and  a  rug.  When  she  had  arranged  the  sofa  into  a 
couch  she  turned  and  looked  at  her  guest. 

Judy  was  nodding. 

Palma  went  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  sleeper's  shoulder 
and  gently  aroused  her,  saying : 

"Whenever  you  wish  to  retire,  dear,  y  )ur  room  is  ready." 

"  Oh !  sure,  I  thank  ye,  ma'am.    Any  time  as  shutes  your- 


S2  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

self  will  shute  me,"  replied  Judy  with  a  wide  gape,  wak 
ing  up. 

"Come,  then/'  said  Palma,  and  she  led  the  sleepy  and 
half-bewildered  girl  into  the  pretty  little  bedchamber,  where 
she  had  laid  out  a  dainty  night  dress  for  her  guest.  Judy 
waked  up  fully  in  the  process  of  disrobing,  and  then  her 
hostess  said: 

"To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  better  accommodation,  but 
to-night  you  will  share  my  room.  I  hope  you  won't 
mind  it." 

"  Och,  no,  ma'am.  Sure  and  haven't  I  been  used  to  pig 
ging  in  itself?"  began  Judy  brightly,  but  she  suddenly 
checked  herself  and  amended  her  phraseology — "I  mean, 
ma'am,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  close  quarters  in  the 
mining  camp,  and  this  is  a  palace  compared  to  any  place  I 
have  ever  seen  before." 

"It  is  a  pretty  little  doll's  house  as  one  could  wish,  for 
dolls,"  replied  Palma  with  a  laugh.  "Not  quite  spacious 
enough,  however,  for  one  who  loves  space." 

"Which  side  am  I  to  sleep  on,  ma'am?"  inquired  the  girl 
when  she  was  ready  for  bed. 

"Any  side  you  wish,  dear.  But,  Judy,  please  don't  call 
me  'ma'am.'  If  you  do  I  shall  be  obliged  to  call  you  'miss/ 
and  I  should  not  like  that,  and  I  do  not  think  you  would 
like  it,  either." 

"Fegs  and  I  wouldn't!  Oh!  that  is  to  say,  no,  ma'am, 
I  should  not.  I  should  feel  it  to  be  cold  and  unkind  of  you." 

"Very  well,  then,  Judy  dear,  do  as  you  would  be  done 
by." 

"I  will,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  getting  into  bed  and  lying 
down  on  the  side  next  to  the  wall  and  squeezing  herself 
against  it  to  take  up  as  little  room  as  possible,  "and  indeed, 
ma'am,  since  it  displeases  you,  I  will  try  to  remember — 
never — to  call — you  ma'am — again." 

The  last  word  was  scarcely  audible,  for  as  soon  as  Judy's 
head  dropped  on  the  pillow  her  eyes  closed  and  she  fell 
fast  asleep. 

Palma  returned  to  the  parlor,  drew  the  easy-chair  to  the 
fire,  and  seated  herself  to  wait  for  Stuart. 

He  came  in  at  length  and  dropped  himself  into  the  larger 
easy-chair  by  Palma's  side. 

"Judy  is  fast  asleep.     She  dropped  asleep  first  in  this 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  8$ 

chair  here,  and  afterward,  when  I  got  her  to  bed,  she  fell 
asleep  as  soon  as  her  head  touched  the  pillow/'  Palma  told 
him  with  a  smile. 

"And  you?"  inquired  Stuart. 

"Oh!  I  am  not  at  all  sleepy.  I  feel  too  much  elated  by 
the  arrival  of  all  these  people.  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Pole 
will  think  when  she  finds  out  that  we  have  a  visitor  staying 
with  us?" 

"Doesn't  she  know,  Palma?" 

"Why,  no,  Cleve.  She  went  to  bed  before  the  colonel 
left  us,  and  how  could  she  know  that  the  girl  remained  be 
hind  ?  And  I  wonder  what  she  will  say  ?" 

"Well,  Palma,  I  think  she  will  disapprove." 

"But  you  don't,  Cleve?" 

"Not  at  all,  dear.  I  am  glad  you  took  the  girl  in.  We 
will  find  a  room  for  her  to-morrow." 

The  clock  struck  twelve,  yet  still  the  young  couple  sat 
talking  to  each  other  like  a  pair  of  lovers  loath  to  say  good 
night,  as  any  young  "courting  couple"  could  possibly  be; 
for,  in  fact,  they  were  now  sweethearts.  Palma,  we  know, 
had  always  loved  Cleve;  but  only  since  their  marriage  had 
Cleve  been  growing  every  day  more  in  love  with  his  wife. 
So  they  sat  and  talked,  or  sat  in  silence  over  the  fire,  until 
the  clock  struck  two. 

"Now,  my  dear,  you  must  really  go  to  bed,  even  if  you  are 
not  sleepy,"  said  Stuart,  rising  and  standing  up,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Here  I  shall  stand  until  you  go." 

"You  turn  me  out,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  turn  you  out!" 

Palma  stood  on  tiptoes  to  kiss  him  good-night.  He  lifted 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  then 
set  her  down,  and  she  vanished  through  the  damask  por 
tieres  into  the  little  bedroom. 

Stuart  threw  off  his  coat  and  lay  down  on  the  sofa.  It 
was  a  short  sofa  with  a  low  back  and  two  arms.  Cleve's 
head  lay  upon  one  arm  and  his  legs  dangled  over  the  other. 
The  discomfort  of  the  position  would  have  kept  him  from 
sleep  even  if  the  apartment  had  been  quiet,  which  it  was 
not. 

Palma's  entrance  had  waked  Judy.  The  girl  had  had 
three  hours'  sound  sleep  and  had  waked  up  refreshed  in 
mind  and  body,  delighted  to  find  herself  in  such  a  rare, 


84  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

beautiful  little  room  and  with  such  a  lovely  companion. 
She  felt  no  inclination  to  sleep  more  just  then — but  to  talk. 

A  kindly  yet  indiscreet  question  from  Palm  a  set  her 
tongue  going,  and  she  talked  on  and  never  stopped  until  she 
had  told  her  whole  story. 

As  there  was  nothing  but  the  red  damask  portieres  that 
separated  the  little  chamber  from  the  little  parlor,  Stuart 
heard  the  whole  of  that  story ;  he  could  not  help  hearing  it. 
Once  or  twice  he  hemmed  to  let  the  narrator  know  that  he 
was  awake  and  listening;  but  that  made  no  difference  to 
Judy.  She  had  no  secrets.  "All  the  birds  of  the  air"  were 
welcome  to  hear  her  history.  It  was  near  daylight  when 
at  length  she  had  talked  herself  to  sleep.  As  for  Palma,  she 
had  dozed  through  the  narrative,  though  Judy  had  not  sus 
pected  it. 

With  the  first  glinting  of  the  rising  sun's  rays  through 
the  slats  of  the  parlor  blinds,  Stuart  gladly  arose  from  his 
uncomfortable  couch  and  went  into  the  little  bathroom  to 
make  his  morning  toilet. 

When  he  had  finished  it,  in  returning  to  the  parlor  he 
passed  by  the  open  door  and  saw  that  Mrs.  Pole  had  risen, 
tidied  up  her  kitchen  and  got  breakfast  well  under  way. 
He  stepped  in  to  tell  her  about  their  guest  and  send  her 
into  the  parlor  to  set  the  room  to  rights.  Then  he  went 
downstairs  to  take  the  air  on  the  sidewalk. 

Airs.  Pole  passed  into  the  parlor  to  hoist  the  window,  re 
plenish  the  fire,  and  restore  the  place  to  order  before  setting 
the  breakfast  table. 

Her  movements  awoke  the  two  sleepers  in  the  next  room. 

They  arose  laughing  and  talking,  dressed  themselves 
quickly  and  came  out  into  the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Pole  turned  from  the  window  she  was  just  closing 
to  look  at  the  stranger. 

Palma  laughingly  introduced  the  two. 

"This  is  our  friend,  Miss  Judith  Man,  Poley.  And, 
Judy,  darling,  this  is  our  dear  Mrs.  Pole,  who  is  like  a  sec 
ond  mother  to  me." 

The  elder  woman  wiped  her  clean  hands  on  her  clean 
apron,  and  then  gave  the  stranger  a  close  clasp  and  a  warm 
welcome. 

"^ow,  Poley,  dear,  you  can  go  and  look  after  the  break 
fast,  and  we  will  set  the  table.  Miss  Judith  is  quite  at  home 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  85 

with  us,  and  knows  as  much  about  housekeeping  as  we  do," 
said  Palma  brightly. 

Mrs.  Pole  made  no  objection,  but  left  the  room. 

Then  Palma — and  Judy  following  her  example — began 
to  take  the  books  off  the  center  table  and  pile  them  in  a 
corner.  Then  they  folded  the  table  cover  and  laid  it  upon 
them. 

Palma  went  to  the  prettiest  little  doll's  corner  cupboard 
that  ever  was  seen,  opened  a  drawer  in  the  lower  part  of  it, 
and  took  out  a  white  damask  cloth  which  she  spread  upon 
the  table. 

Then  she  handed  out  the  china,  piece  by  piece,  which 
Judy  took  and  arranged  on  the  cloth. 

"You  see,  dear,  what  a  little  casket  we  live  in,"  said 
Palma  when  the  table  was  ready  and  the  cupboard  closed. 

"Sure,  darlint,  ye  are  a  precious  jewel  yerself,  and  where 
would  ye  be  stored  but  in  a  casket  itself?"  demanded  Judy. 

Presently  Stuart  came  up  from  below  and  greeted  the 
two  young  women  cordially. 

Mrs.  Pole  brought  in  the  breakfast  and  they  sat  down  to 
the  table. 

They  were  scarcely  seated  when  Ran  entered,  shook  hands 
all  around,  and  took  the  fourth  place  at  the  table,  which  had 
been  prepared  for  him. 

The  conversation  grew  lively. 

"When  shall  we  see  Mike?"  inquired  Ran  at  length. 

"Oh!  to-day,  I  hope,"  replied  Judy. 

"Does  he  know  where  to  find  us?" 

"He  didn't  yesterday !  No  more  did  we !  And  he  wint 
with  his  friends — friends  to  a  chape — cheap  boarding-house 
before  the  colonel  found  you  out.  But  sure  he  will  know 
where  we  are  by  this  time!  The  colonel  will  have  told 
him." 

While  they  were  yet  speaking  in  walked  the  colonel  with 
Mike. 

All  the  company  arose  from  the  table  to  receive  them. 

Ran  and  Mike  closed  hands  cordially  at  once,  while  the 
colonel  was  shaking  hands  with  Stuart,  Palma,  and  Judy. 

Then  Ran  introduced  Mike  to  his  cousins,  who  received 
him  heartily. 

"And,  now,  won't  you  both  sit  down  and  take  some 
breakfast  with  us?"  inquired  Stuart  and  Palma  in  a  breath. 


86  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Oh,  thank  you!  I  just  got  up  from  my  breakfast  to 
bring  Man  here,"  said  the  colonel. 

"And  meself  finished  before  I  wint  to  his  honor,"  said 
Mike. 

"But  do  not  let  us  disturb  you.  Pray,  go  on  with  your 
own  breakfast,"  said  Col.  Moseley. 

"Oh,  we  have  done!"  replied  Stuart,  while  Palma  rang 
the  bell  for  Mrs.  Pole  to  come  and  take  away  the  service. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  all  seated  in  the  little  par 
lor,  which  the  company  of  six  nearly  filled. 

"And  how  is  the  misthress  this  morning,  sir?"  inquired 
Judy  of  the  colonel. 

"Oh!  she  has  quite  recovered  from  her  fatigue  and  has 
gone  house-hunting  with  Mrs.  Walling." 

"And  thechildher?" 

"Ah!  well  and  delighted  with  the  great  city,"  replied 
Col.  Moseley;  and  as  Judy  asked  no  more  questions  he 
turned  to  Ran  and  said : 

"I  find  that  you  have  had  very  little  difficulty  in  prevail 
ing  on  the  Messrs.  Walling  to  recognize  your  rights,  Hay !" 

"None  whatever,  sir;  thanks  to  your  strong  letter!"  re 
plied  Ran. 

"Thanks  to  your  strong  proofs,  rather.  Who  could  with 
stand  such  overwhelming  evidence  ?  But,  Hay,  in  none  of 
your  letters  did  you  tell  us  who  the  rival  claimant  was,  al 
though  I  asked  you  to  do  so." 

"I  never  got  your  letter  containing  such  a  request,  sir, 
or  I  should  have  complied  with  it.  The  reason  why  I  never 
volunteered  the  information  was  because  the  subject  was  a 
painful  one.  And,  by  the  way,  has  not  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Walling 
told  you  who  that  impostor  was?" 

"No.  I  have  not  had  five  minutes'  private  conversation 
with  them  yet.  Mrs.  Walling  may  have  told  my  wife  by  this 
time." 

"Well,  colonel,  the  claimant  was,  not  my  Uncle  James' 
son,  as  I  suspected,  but  a  fraudulent  adventurer  whom  we 
have  known  as  Gentleman  Geff." 

"Gentleman  Gen*!  Why,  I  thought  he  had  been  quite 
killed  by  the  same  parties  that  half  killed  you,  and  that  his 
bones  were  buried  in  the  old  fort  cemetery  !" 

"'So  did  I.  So  did  we  all.  But  we  were  mistaken.  The 
body  buried  in  the  cemetery  for  Gentleman  GefFs  was  not 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  8T 

his,  but  that  of  some  poor  victim  of  border  ruffianism,  whose 
identification  we  shall,  perhaps,  never  discover,  and  Gentle 
man  Geff  is  alive  and  flourishing  in  stolen  plumes  on  the 
continent  of  Europe." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it!"  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

And  Ran  went  over  the  story  of  Gentleman  GefFs  crimes, 
already  so  well  known  to  our  readers. 

Col.  Moseley  listened  with  grave  interest;  Mike  with 
open-mouthed  wonder,  Judy  in  stupefaction. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  one  should  ever  be  surprised  at  any 
thing  that  happens,"  mused  the  colonel. 

"Bedad,  meself  is  only  shurprised  that  I  nivir  had  the 
sinse  to  shuspect  it,"  remarked  Mike. 

"And  he  that  particular  about  his  clane  linen!  Sure,  I 
nivir  less  would  have  belaived  it  av  sich  a  jintleman!" 
sighed  Judy. 

"Where  is  the  scoundrel  now?"  inquired  the  colonel. 

"Somewhere  in  Europe  on  his  bridal  tour,"  replied  Ran. 

"On  his  bridal  tour?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Ran. 

And  then  he  told  the  story  of  Gentleman  GefFs  felonious 
marriage. 

"A  fine  account  he  will  have  to  settle!"  exclaimed  the 
colonel.  "Two  assaults,  with  intent  to  kill,  one  bigamy, 
divers  forgeries  and  perjuries,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fraudu 
lent  claim  of  a  name  and  estate  to  which  he  has  no  right." 

"I  shall  not  take  a  single  step  toward  prosecuting  him," 
said  Ran. 

"Ah!  you  won't!  By  the  way,  do  you  really  sail  on 
Saturday?" 

"Yes,  colonel,  really.  And,  moreover,  I  mean  to  take 
Judy  with  me.  Yes,  indeed,  sir.  She  is  more  than  wealth, 
and  rank,  and  culture,  and  every  other  worldly  good. 
Sooner  than  part  again,  with  half  a  sphere  between  us,  we 
will  get  married  first  and  go  to  school  afterward,"  said 
Ran,  taking  Judy's  hand  within  his  own  and  keeping  a  close 
hold  of  it. 

"Whe-ew!  And  what  does  Miss  Judy  say  to  that?"  in 
quired  the  colonel. 

"Sure,  thin,  sir,"  began  Judy — but  her  face  flamed  and 
she  mended  her  speech — "  indeed,  sir,  I  have  consented  to  do 
as  Ran  wishes.  Why  should  I  not  ?  Absence  has  tried  us. 


88  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

He  has  graived — suffered,  that  is.  And  as  for  myself,  sir, 
there  was  many  a  time  when  I  could  have  started  to  walk 
clear  across  the  continent  to  go  to  him  just  as  I  walked 
through  the  wilderness  to  find  him  when  he  was  wounded, 
only  it  would  not  have  been — been — right,  I  suppose." 

"And  so  you  mean  really  to  marry  this  young  fellow  and 
go  to  Europe  with  him  ?" 

"Yis — yes,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"But  you  said  out  there  at  the  fort  that  you  would  not  do 
it  until — something  or  other,  I  have  forgotten  what." 

"Until  he  had  seen  something  of  the  world,  sir,  to  be  sure 
of  his  own  mind — that  is  what  I  mint — meant.  And  now 
it  is  not  as  if  Ran  and  myself  had  only  met  lately  at  a  party 
and  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  each  other.  We  have  known 
each  other  for  years." 

"And,  sir,"  said  Ean,  "you  must  not  think  that  we  have 
given  lap  the  plan  of  education ;  for  we  have  not.  I  have 
talked  it  over  with  my  Cousin  Cleve  here,  and  settled  upon 
a  plan,  to  which  Judy  has  agreed.  We  will  marry,  as  I 
said,  before  we  sail  for  England.  After  we  have  visited 
Haymore  we  will  go  to  London,  as  being  the  place  of  places 
where  we  can  live  in  the  strictest  retirement,  unknown  and 
untroubled,  until  education  shall  have  fitted  us  to  mingle 
with  society.  After  which  we  will  go  and  settle  at  Hay- 
more.  This  is  the  best  plan  I  can  think  of  to  keep  us 
united.  And  I  will  not  entertain  any  plan  that  is  to  part 
this  dear,  true  girl  from  me,  even  for  a  season." 

"Bravo,  my  boy!  Even  if  I  had  a  right  to  set  up  any 
opposition  to  your  wishes,  I  should  not  do  it.  And  what  is 
to  be  done  with  Mike  ?" 

"Mike  is  my  brother,"  replied  Ean.  "He  shall  share  with 
me  in  any  way  he  likes.  He  shall  go  to  England  and  live 
with  us  if  he  likes.  Or  stay  here,  and  enter  into  any  busi 
ness  that  he  may  choose  and  be  fit  for." 

Col.  Moseley  looked  at  Ean,  and  thought  him  the  most 
unselfish,  the  most  unworldly  individual  he  had  ever  seen  in 
all  the  days  of  his  life. 

And  so  Ean  was. 

The  colonel  soon  took  leave,  expressing  his  pleasure  in 
the  prospect  of  meeting  his  friends  at  Mr.  Samuel  Walling' s 
that  evening. 

"And  now,  young  man,  that  I  have  shown  you  the  way  to 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  89 

your  sister's  abiding-place,  you  will  not  need  my  guidance 
any  longer.  Good-day  to  you/'  he  said  to  Mike  as  he  left 
the  room. 

"Good-day,  and  many  thanks  for  your  shivility,  sir,"  re 
turned  Mike. 

It  occurred  to  Ran  then  that  perhaps  Mike,  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  his  heart,  was  staying  longer  than  was  convenient 
in  the  narrow  quarters  of  his  cousins;  so  very  soon  he 
asked  him : 

"Where  are  Longman  and  old  Dandy  staying?  I  should 
like  to  see  them." 

"Oh,  they  are  at  Markiss',  away  down  on  Water  Street. 
They'd  be  proud  to  see  you,  Ean.  Come  with  me,  and  I 
will  take  ye  straight  to  them." 

This  was  exactly  what  Ran  wished.  He  arose  and  bade 
the  two  young  women  good-morning,  and  left  the  house 
with  his  friend. 

Palma  and  Judy  began  to  think  of  making  preparations 
for  the  family  dinner  party  at  Mrs.  Walling's. 

Palma  took  out  her  crimson  cashmere  dress  and  gave  it 
to  Mrs.  Pole  to  be  brushed  and  shaken,  sponged  and  pressed, 
and  looked  over  her  small  stock  of  lace  and  gloves. 

Judy  looked  down  on  her  own  brown  traveling  dress  and 
said  ruefully: 

"This  will  never  do  to  wear  this  evening.  I  have  got  a 
pretty  dark  blue  French  merino;  but  it  is  in  my  trunk  at 
the  hotel,  and  sure  it  might  as  well  be  in  Aigypt — Egypt, 
that  is." ' 

"Col.  Moseley  will  be  sure  to  send  the  trunk  to  you,"  sug 
gested  Palma.  And  even  while  she  spoke  a  noise  was  heard 
outside  and  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  the  janitor  en 
tered  the  parlor,  followed  by  a  porter  with  the  girl's  trunk 
on  his  shoulders.  When  he  put  it  down  on  the  floor  Stuart 
paid  and  discharged  him,  and  shortly  after  left  the  house 
on  his  daily  hopeless  search  for  employment. 

That  evening  Stuart,  Palma,  Hay,  Judith,  Col.  and  Mrs. 
Moseley,  Mr.  James  and  Miss  Betty  Moseley  met  at  dinner 
at  Mr.  Samuel  Walling's.  A  happier  party  never  gathered 
around  a  table. 

After  dinner  the  ladies  withdrew  to  the  drawing-room, 
leaving  the  gentlemen  to  their  wine. 


90  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

In  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Moseley  introduced  the  subject 
of  Ran  and  Judy's  proposed  marriage.  She  said  to  Judy : 

"My  dear,  we  are  all  friends  here — intimate  friends,  in 
deed — so  it  is  quite  proper  that  I  should  speak  plainly.  My 
young  favorite,  Mr.  Hay,  has  taken  counsel  with  me  con 
cerning  his  wish  to  marry  you  and  take  you  to  Europe  with 
him.  Am  I  right  in  supposing  that  this  is  your  wish  also?" 

"  Yis — yes,  madam,"  replied  Judy,  modestly  lowering  her 
eyes. 

"Then,  dear,  are  you  willing  that  Mrs.  Stuart  and  myself 
should  make  all  the  arrangements  for  you  ?" 

"I  should  be  very  grateful  to  you,  madam." 

"Look  here  !  I  am  not  going  to  be  left  out  in  the  cold !': 
exclaimed  Augusta  Walling,  laughing  and  joining  the  circle. 

"  Of  course  you  are  not !  How  should  you  be,  when  we 
are  hoping  that  the  wedding  breakfast  will  be  served  right 
here  in  your  house  on  Saturday  morning  next?"  said  Mrs. 
Moseley,  well  knowing  that  she  might  take  a  much  greater 
liberty  than  that  with  her  old  schoolmate. 

"That  will  be  perfectly  delightful!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Walling.  "I  adore  a  wedding  breakfast  at  home,  and  never 
expected  to  enjoy  one  until  my  own  daughter,  now  at 
Vassar,  grows  up  and  gets  married.  Miss  Judith,  shall  this 
be  so  ?  Will  you  place  yourself  in  my  hands  ?" 

"Sure  and" — brightly  exclaimed  Judy,  and  then  she 
stopped  suddenly,  blushed  and  amended  her  speech — "I 
should  be  glad  and  grateful,  ma'am,''  she  answered. 

Then  Mrs.  Walling  turned  to  Palma,  saying : 

"And  you  will  give  me  back  your  guest  in  time?  You 
are  rather  too  young  a  matron  to  chaperon  a  bride-elect," 
she  added  with  a  smile. 

"As  you  and  my  cousins  please,  dear  Mrs.  Walling.  I 
should  myself  be  very  happy  to  serve  them,  but  I  will  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  another  who  can  do  so  much  better," 
replied  Palma. 

"That's  a  dear,  unselfish  angel !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walling. 
And  then  the  four  women  formed  themselves  into  a  com 
mittee  of  ways  and  means,  and  discussed  wedding  break 
fasts,  trousseaus  and  so  forth,  treating  Judy  with  as  much 
freedom,  tenderness  and  liberality  as  if  she  had  been  their 
own  child,  until  the  gentlemen  came  in  and  the  subject  was 
dropped. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  91 

The  evening  passed  so  pleasantly  that  it  was  late  when 
the  party  broke  up. 

Stuart,  Palma,  Ran  and  Judy  returned  to  their  flat. 

Stuart  had  not  been  able  to  find  a  room  for  Judy.  All 
the  rooms  were  in  suites.  One  more  night  he  had  to  sleep  as 
well  as  he  could  on  the  short  sofa,  while  Judy  shared 
Palma's  bed. 

But  the  next  day,  toward  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Walling 
came  for  Judy,  to  take  her  to  the  Walling  home  to  make 
preparations  for  her  marriage  on  Saturday. 

"The  Moseleys,"  she  said,  "have  secured  a  fine  old  manor 
house  at  Fort  Washington,  about  fifteen  minutes  by  rail 
from  New  York.  It  is  completely  furnished  and  in  perfect 
readiness  for  occupation.  The  family  are  in  Europe,  and 
the  house  has  been  left  in  the  care  of  an  agent,  who  has 
just  kept  it  in  perfect  order.  They  leave  us  to-night;  so 
you  see  we  have  room  for  a  score  of  young  girls,  if  we  could 
find  them." 

Palma  made  no  objection  to  the  departure  of  Judy,  but 
kissed  her  an  affectionate  good-by;  and  Mrs.  Walling  took 
the  girl  and  the  girl's  little  trunk  away  with  her  in  the 
luxurious  family  carriage. 

And  Ean  forsook  the  Stuarts  and  spent  that  evening  with 
the  Wallings,  returning  quite  late  to  his  suite  of  rooms  on 
their  flat.  But,  under  the  circumstances,  his  cousins  for 
gave  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  WEDDING  AND  OTHER  INCIDENTS 

STUART  and  Palma  were  both  very  glad  and  very  grate 
ful  that  Mrs.  Walling  had  undertaken  all  the  responsibil 
ities  of  their  cousin's  wedding.  They  knew  that  her  means 
were  ample,  and  that  Walling  &  Walling  were  advancing, 
and  would  continue  to  advance,  any  sum  that  Randolph  or 
Judith  might  require  for  their  personal  preparations.  They 
knew  also  that  Mrs.  Walling  was  sincerely  delighted  with 
the  idea  of  the  wedding  celebration  at  her  own  house; 
whereas,  had  it  been  settled  to  come  off  at  the  Stuarts' 


92  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

apartments,  Stuart,  from  impecuniosity,  and  Palma,  from 
inexperience,  would  have  been  very  much  embarrassed. 

Mrs.  Walling  was  in  her  element  selecting  a  proper  trous 
seau  and  outfit  for  Judy. 

She  came  in  her  carriage  every  morning  to  take  Palma 
out  shopping  with  her  and  Judy.  Mrs.  Moseley  could  not 
accompany  the  party;  not  because  she  was  a  little  way  out 
of  town,  for  the  cars  ran  all  the  time  and  would  have 
brought  her  in  in  fifteen  minutes,  but  because  she  was  "up 
to  her  eyes  in  business"  settling  her  large  family  in  their 
new  home. 

So  Mrs.  Walling,  Palma,  and  Judy  went  out  together 
every  day,  until  all  the  shopping  was  completed. 

Judy's  outfit  was  a  very  complete  but  not  a  very  costly 
one. 

"You  know,  dear,"  Mrs.  Walling  explained  to  Palma, 
"that  our  little  friend  is  not  going  at  all  into  society  for  two 
or  three  years  to  come.  The  young  pair  will  live  very  quiet 
ly  somewhere,  to  advance  their  education,  before  they  show 
themselves  to  their  neighbors  at  Haymore ;  and  so  she  will 
really  need  little  more  than  a  schoolgirl's  'kist.'  Her  wed 
ding  dress,  of  course,  must  be  a  pretty  one,  and  her  travel 
ing  dress  must  be  very  nice,  but  the  others  plain  and  simple 
and  inexpensive." 

Palma  agreed  to  the  prudence  of  all  this.  And  Judy 
said  never  a  word.  She  left  her  affairs  entirely  in  the  hands 
of  her  two  friends. 

While  the  lady  shopped  for  Judy  she  shopped  for  herself 
as  well.  But,  after  a  day  or  two,  she  could  not  but  notice 
that  Palma  bought  nothing;  that  she  let  all  the  tempting 
goods,  so  pretty  and  so  cheap,  pass  under  her  admiring  eyes 
unpurchased. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  young  one?"  inquired  Au 
gusta  of  herself.  "Doesn't  she  care  for  dress  at  all  ?"  Then 
she  remembered  that  she  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Stuart  in  but 
two  dresses,  and  very  inexpensive  ones  at  that,  namely,  an 
India  muslin,  sometimes,  in  her  evenings  at  home,  and  a 
fine  crimson  cashmere  for  visiting.  And  then  it  occurred 
to  Augusta  Walling  that  the  Stuarts  might  be  in  strait 
ened  circumstances;  and  her  heart  was  touched  with  sym 
pathy  for  the  beautiful  young  woman  who  saw  so  many 
attractive  articles  of  adornment  pass  under  her  eyes  or  be 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  93 

bought  by  others  without  being  able  to  buy  one  of  them. 
And  she  wondered  how  she  might  make  Palma  a  pretty 
present  without  giving  offense. 

"1  hate  the  role  of  a  pretended  benefactress.  I  should 
shrink  from  such  an  imputation.  Lovely  little  creature! 
how  elegant  she  would  look  in  a  ruby  velvet,  with  duchess 
lace  !  And  she  shall  have  it !  Yes,  that  she  shall !  And  I 
will  take  the  risk  of  being  snubbed  and  stood  in  a  corner  for 
my  impertinence." 

The  outcome  of  the  lady's  resolution  was  this :  After  she 
had  set  down  Palma  at  the  Stuarts'  apartments,  and  taken 
Judy  home  to  the  Walling  house,,  she  set  out  on  a  second 
shopping  expedition. 

The  same  night,  while  Stuart  was  taking  his  usual  walk 
up  and  down  the  pavement  before  the  house,  and  Palma  sat 
in  her  little  room  stitching  fresh  edges  on  frayed  collars  and 
cuffs,  one  of  Lovelace  &  Silkman's  young  ladies  arrived  at 
the  apartment  home,  followed  by  a  boy  with  a  large  band 
box,  and  asked  for  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart.  She  was  brought  up 
in  the  elevator  and  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Palma,  who 
arose  to  receive  the  unexpected  visitor,  staring  a  little.  The 
stranger  merely  nodded  to  the  lady,  then,  without  any  pref 
ace,  she  took  the  bandbox  from  the  boy,  set  it  on  a  chair, 
untied,  unwrapped  and  opened  it,  and  took  from  it  a  glor 
ious  suit  of  dark,  bright  blue  damasse  velvet,  trimmed  with 
satin,  and  spread  it  over  a  chair,  saying : 

"If  it  is  convenient,  I  would  like  to  have  you  try  it  on 
now,  ma'am,  so  that  I  may  make  any  alterations  that  may 
be  necessary  before  I  leave." 

"But  I "  began  the  wondering  Palma,  when  she  was 

suddenly  interrupted  by  the  dressmaker  exclaiming : 

"Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  forgot!"  And  she  handed  a 
note  addressed  to  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart. 

Palma  took  it  in  perplexity,  opened  it,  and  read : 

"Beauty  to  the  beautiful!  To  Palma  Stuart,  with  the 
true  love  of  Augusta  Walling." 

Palma  was  touched,  melted,  delighted  all  at  once.  She 
had  never  had,  nor  ever  expected  to  have,  so  superb  a  dress. 
She  was  but  a  child  in  some  things.  She  could  not  speak 
for  surprise,  gratitude  and  embarrassment. 


94  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

But  the  matter-of-fact  young  woman  from  the  suit  de 
partment  of  Lovelace  &  Silkman's  went  on  to  say : 

"We  were  very  sorry  that  we  had  not  a  ruby  velvet  made 
up,  but  the  lady  who  gave  us  your  order  said  that  there 
would  be  no  time  to  make  up  one,  and  she  selected  this; 
and  I  really  think,  madam,  that  this  shade  of  mazarine  blue 
will  be  quite  as  becoming  to  your  brunette  style  as  garnet 
or  ruby." 

"It  is  beautiful!  It  could  not  be  more  beautiful!"  ex 
claimed  Palma. 

"Will  you  try  it  on  now?" 

Palma  arose  and  the  dressmaker  helped  to  relieve  her  of 
her  cashmere  dress  and  induct  her  into  the  velvet. 

But  slight  alteration  was  necessary — the  front  breadth 
shortened,  the  sleeves  shortened,  the  side  seams  of  the  waist 
taken  in — that  was  all. 

The  young  dressmaker  laid  off  her  hat  and  her  wraps,  and 
took  from  her  little  hand-bag  needle,  sewing  silk,  scissors 
and  thimble,  and  sat  down  to  work. 

Then  Palma,  having  nothing  else  to  occupy  herself  with 
while  the  dressmaker  sat  there,  began  idly  to  rummage 
among  the  silver  tissue  paper  in  the  bottom  of  the  big  band 
box,  and  there  she  found  another  box — a  smaller  one — 
which  she  took  out  to  examine.  It  had  her  name  on  it.  She 
opened  the  box  and  found  a  fichu  and  pocket  handkerchief 
of  duchess  lace,  a  pair  of  the  finest  white  kid  gloves,  a  lovely 
fan,  and  a  little  turban  of  velvet  and  satin  to  match  her 
dress. 

The  dressmaker  soon  finished  her  task,  folded  the  dress, 
returned  it  to  the  box,  and  took  her  leave. 

Then  Palma  started  up,  like  the  delighted  child  that  she 
was,  opened  the  box  again,  took  out  the  elegant  dress, 
spread  it  all  over  the  sofa  to  display  its  beauties  to  the  best 
advantage,  and  called  in  Mrs.  Pole  to  admire  it ;  and  when 
that  good  woman  had  risen  to  as  much  enthusiasm  as  she 
was  capable  of — for  a  suit — and  returned  to  her  own  do 
minions,  Palma  still  left  it  there,  that  Stuart  might  be  re 
galed  with  the  vision  when  he  should  come  in. 

When  Cleve  did  come  in  and  was  shown  the  present  and 
the  note  that  came  with  it  he  looked  rather  grave ;  he  did 
not  like  presents,  would  much  rather  that  his  pretty  little 
wife  had  continued  to  wear  her  shabby  red  cashmere,  rather 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  95 

than  be  indebted  to  any  one  for  a  sapphire  velvet;  but  it 
was  too  late  to  prevent  her  acceptance  of  it  now,  so  he  quick 
ly  cleared  his  brow  and  admired  the  dress  to  her  heart's  con 
tent. 

On  that  same  evening  Ran  was,  as  usual,  spending  the 
hour  with  Mrs.  Walling  and  Judy.  There  was  no  other 
company.  Ean  had  a  secret  source  of  distress,  and  it  was 
this— his  humble,  faithful  friends  down  at  Markiss'  Hotel 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  They  certainly  did  not  belong 
to  the  Walling  "set."  Conventionally,  they  were  a  long 
long  way  below  that  set;  yet  Ran  wanted  them  to  be  pres 
ent  both  at  his  wedding  and  at  the  wedding  breakfast,  and 
that  wedding  was  to  be  celebrated  at  one  of  the  most  "fash 
ionable"  churches  in  the  city;  and  that  wedding  breakfast 
was  to  be  given  at  Mrs.  Falling's.  How  could  Ran  ask 
that  very  fine  lady  to  invite  his  humble  friends?  And, 
on  the  other  hand,  how  could  he  slight  those  faithful 
Inends  ?  Mike,  his  brother-in-law  expectant,  must  come  of 
course;  that  was  to  be  taken  for  granted,  and  then  Long 
man,  who  had  rescued  him  on  the  night  when  he  was  shot, 
and  who  had  actually  saved  his  life— Longman  ought  cer 
tainly  to  come.  And,  finally,  poor  old  Andrew  Quin  ought 
not  to  be  left— the  only  one — "out  in  the  cold." 

While  Ran  was  turning  these  matters  over  in  his  mind 
he  was  not  noticing  what  Mrs.  Walling  was  doing.  That 
good  lady  sat  at  a  small  writing-desk  busy  with  note  paper 
and  envelopes.  Presently  she  said: 

;'  Randolph,  dear,  give  me  the  address  of  those  good 
Inends  of  yours." 

"Friends,  madam!"  exclaimed  Ran,  the  more  taken  by 
surprise  that  he  had  been  just  thinking  of  them.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  lady  must  have  read  his  thoughts. 

"Yes,  those  old  friends  of  yours  who  came  on  with  Judy 
and  the  Moseleys  and  are  boarding  somewhere  down  in  the 
city  while  waiting  for  their  steamer." 

J'01i!  yes,  madam!  You  mean  Samson  Longman  and 
Andrew  Quin?  They  are  with  Michael  at  Markiss'  on 
Water  Street.  I  do  not  know  the  number." 

"That  is  not  necessary.  I  am  sending  them  invitations 
to  the  wedding  and  the  breakfast;  for  though,  of  course 
such  a  hasty  affair  as  this  is  will  not  admit  of  much  cere 
mony  and  elaboration,  yet  they  must  be  present.  There  will 


96  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

be  the  Moseleys,  the  Stuarts,  ourselves  and  your  friends 
from  Markiss'." 

"I  should  tell  you  beforehand  that  those  friends  of  mine 
come  from  a  mining  camp,  and  though  good  and  true  as 
men  can  be,  they  are  rough  and  plain." 

"Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  told  you  who  is  coming,  and 
so  you  may  know  that  these  friends  will  meet  no  one  in  our 
house  who  will  be  so  silly  as  to  look  down  upon  them  for 
being  rough  and  plain.  Eeally,  Kan,  dear,  it  ought  not  to 
be  necessary  for  me  to  say  this,"  concluded  the  lady. 

For  all  answer,  Eandolph  Hay  went  to  her  side,  raised 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  with  reverential  ten 
derness. 

Judy  looked  up  in  her  face  with  eyes  full  of  tears  and 
murmured : 

"The  Lord  in  heaven  bless  you,  sweet  and  lovely  lady!" 

Mrs.  Walling  smiled  deprecatingly  at  this  effusiveness 
and  patted  Judy  gently  on  the  head.  Then  she  turned  to  her 
writing-desk  and  wrote  her  informal  notes.  These  were  the 
only  invitations  the  lady  had  written.  The  few  others  to  the 
members  of  the  two  families  more  immediately  concerned 
had  been  verbal  ones. 

When  she  had  finished  directing  the  envelopes  she  handed 
them  over  to  Ran,  saying : 

"  The  letter  box  is  directly  on  your  way  home ;  will  you 
mind  dropping  them  in  ?" 

"I  will  take  charge  of  them  with  pleasure,"  said  Kan,  and 
as  the  hour  was  late  he  arose,  said  good-night  and  left  the 
house. 

But  Kan  did  not  drop  the  notes  in  a  letter  box.  He 
walked  over  to  Sixth  Avenue,  hailed  a  car,  boarded  it  and 
rode  down  as  far  as  that  car  would  take  him,  then  got  out 
and  walked  to  Markiss' ;  for  he  was  anxious  that  his  friends 
should  get  their  bids  as  soon  as  possible.  He  found  Mike, 
Longman,  and  Dandy  all  sitting  smoking  in  the  grimy  back 
parlor  behind  Markiss'  bar. 

He  entered  and  sat  down  among  them.  There  happened 
to  be  no  other  guests  in  the  room. 

"Well,  boys,  did  you  think  I  had  forgotten  you?"  in 
quired  Ran,  really  remorseful  for  not  having  sought  them 
out  before. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  9T 

"If  we  did  we  excused  you,,  under  the  circumstances," 
replied  Longman,  speaking  for  the  rest. 

"I  suppose  Mike  has  told  you  that  I  am  to  marry  his 
sister  on  Saturday  morning — that  is,  the  day  after  to 
morrow?" 

"Oh,  ay!  trust  Mike  for  that!"  cried  old  Dandy  with  a 
little  giggle. 

"Well,  I  have  come  to-night  to  bring  you  invitations  to 
be  present  at  the  ceremony  in  the  church  and  afterward  at 
the  breakfast  at  the  house.  And,  boys,  you  must  be  sure 
to  come." 

"And  where  am  I  to  get  the  widding  garment  proper  for 
the  occasion  ?  Sure,  there's  no  time  to  be  cutted  and  fitted 
and  made  dacint  to  appear  in  sich  grand  company,  though  I 
thank  the  lady  all  the  same,"  said  Andrew  Quin. 

"Why,  Dandy!  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  in  New 
York,  where  you  can  be  fitted  out  for  a  wedding  or  a  funeral 
or  an  Arctic  expedition  in  five  minutes — more  or  less?" 
laughed  Ran. 

"Yes;  it's  more  or  less,  111  allow.  But  I  do  reckon  I  can 
get  a  ready-made  suit  of  clothes  raisonable  enough  here." 

"Certainly  you  can!  But  you  must  let  me  see  to  that, 
Dandy.  I  will  be  down  here  again  to-morrow.  And,  lest 
I  should  forget  to  tell  you,  I  must  do  so  now.  On  Saturday 
morning  you  must  let  Mike  bring  you  to  the  church.  He 
knows  where  it  is." 

"All  right,  Misther  Hay,"  said  Dandy. 

"And,  Longman,  you  have  not  promised,  but  you  will 
come,  I  am  sure.  My  friends  uptown  wish  to  make  the  ac 
quaintance  of  the  ISTimrod  who  saved  my  life." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hay!"  laughed  the  giant  deprecatingly.  "But 
I  shall  be  proud  to  come  to  your  wedding,"  he  added. 

Then  Ean  bade  them  good-night  and  went  home. 

The  next  day — Friday — was  the  last  before  the  wedding 
and  the  sailing.  There  were  yet  a  few  articles  to  be  pur 
chased,  and  so  Mrs.  Walling  got  ready  to  go  on  her  usual 
morning  shopping  round.  She  asked  Judy  to  put  on  her 
hat  to  go  with  her. 

She  did  not  intend  to  call  for  Palma  on  this  occasion ;  a 
feeling  of  delicacy  withheld  her  from  going  into  the  way  of 
her  thanks. 

But  while  the  carriage  was  standing  at  the  door,  and 


98  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

while  Mrs.  Walling  was  waiting  in  the  parlor  for  Judy  to 
join  her,  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart  was  announced  and  entered  the 
room. 

Palma  went  straight  up  to  Mrs.  Walling  with  out 
stretched  hands  and  glowing  eyes  and  said : 

"How  shall  I  thank  you  for  the  rich,  beautiful  dress — 
the  soft,  lovely,  caressing  dress — that  folds  me  around  with 
the  feeling  of  a  friend's  embrace — your  embrace?" 

For  answer  the  lady  drew  the  speaker  to  her  bosom  and 
kissed  her,  smiling. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  continued  Palma.,  "that  I  feel 
more  comfort  in  this  than  I  should  if  I  had  bought  it  my 
self  out  of  boundless  riches." 

Again  Mrs.  Walling  kissed  her,  laughing  this  time. 

"Every  time  I  put  it  on  I  shall  feel  your  love  around 
me." 

The  elder  lady  pressed  both  the  younger  one's  hands  and 
said: 

"We  are  going  out  to  try  to  find  a  suitable  sea  cloak  for 
Judy.  We  must  find  an  extra  heavy  one.  It  will  be  terribly 
cold  crossing  the  ocean  at  this  season.  They  will  be  on  the 
banks  of  Newfoundland  in  the  first  days  of  December. 
Will  you  go  with  us  ?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Palma.  And  as  Judy  now  entered 
the  room,  ready  dressed  for  the  drive,  they  arose  to  go  out. 
But  just  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Duncan  was  announced  and 
came  in. 

Both  Mrs.  Walling  and  Palma  received  her  as  cordially 
as  if  she  had  not  interrupted  their  departure.  Mrs.  Walling 
then  introduced: 

"My  young  friend,  Miss  Judith  Man." 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear?  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
the  visitor. 

Judy  bowed  and  smiled. 

"You  are  going  out.  Don't  let  me  detain  you.  I  was  on 
my  way  down  to  Fourteenth  Street  to  do  a  little  shopping 
and  just  dropped  in  here  to  tell  you  a  piece  of  news;  but 
I  can  take  another  opportunity,"  Mrs.  Duncan  explained. 
"  Oh,  no !  Pray  do  not !  We  should  die  of  suspense ! 
Pray,  sit  right  down  and  open  your  budget.  Our  errand 
can  wait  as  well  as  yours.  It  is  only  shopping.  And  when 
you  are  ready  for  yours  you  would  oblige  us  by  taking  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  99 

fourth  seat  in  our  carriage,  so  that  we  can  go  together," 
Mrs.  Walling  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Duncan  laid  down  her  muff  and  shopping  bag  and 
seated  herself  in  one  of  the  luxurious  armchairs. 

Mrs.  Walling  rang  a  bell  and  gave  an  order: 

"Bring  coffee  into  this  room." 

And  presently  the  four  women  had  tiny  china  cups  in 
their  hands,  sipping  hot  and  fragrant  Mocha,  three  of  them 
listening  while  the  fourth  told  her  news. 

"It  is  about  Jennie  Montgomery,  the  true  wife  of  the 
counterfeit  Randolph  Hay "  began  the  speaker. 

"Yes!  yes!"  eagerly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walling  and  Palma 
in  a  breath,  while  Judy  looked  up  in  eager  curiosity. 

"You  know,  without  any  one's  planning — unless  fate  be 
some  one — that  Jennie  and  her  child  were  passengers  on  the 
same  steamship,  and  even  in  the  same  cabin,  with  her  fraud 
ulent  husband  and  his  false  bride?" 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"I  said  when  I  discovered  that  complication  that  those 
elements  were  as  explosive  as  dynamite.  Neither  could 
have  expected  the  presence  of  the  other  on  the  steamer,  and 
so  I  was  really  anxious  to  hear  what  happened  when  Miss 
Leegh  and  her  'bridegroom*  met  his  lawful  wife  and  child 
on  the  ship,  on  the  ocean,  whence  neither  could  escape  with 
out  jumping  into  the  sea." 

"Well,  have  you  heard?"  impatiently  demanded  Mrs. 
Walling. 

"Yes;  I  have  just  received  a  long  letter  from  Jennie, 
dated  November  15th.  She  had  been  at  home  four  weeks 
before  she  found  time  to  write  to  me." 

"And "  breathlessly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walling. 

"She  met  her  husband  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  She- 
was  as  much  astonished  as  he  was  confounded.  But  I  had 
better  read  her  letter  to  you." 

And  the  visitor  drew  a  thickly  packed  envelope,  with  a 
foreign  stamp,  from  her  pocket,  and  read  the  pages  describ 
ing  Jennie's  voyage,  her  meeting  with  her  husband  and  Miss 
Leegh  on  the  Scorpio,  and  her  arrival  at  home  in  her 
father's  new  vicarage,  as  these  events  are  already  known  to 
our  readers. 

"To  think  of  Jennie's  self-control  and  forbearance!" 
concluded  Mrs.  Duncan. 


100  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"And  to  think  of  Lamia  Leegh's  insolence  in  trying  to 
patronize  her,  the  real  wife  of  her  own  'brevet'  bride 
groom!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walling. 

"  And  to  think  of  the  man's  assurance  in  carrying  of?  mat 
ters  with  such  a  high  hand !"  remarked  Palma. 

"Och,  sure,  and  himself  had  always  the  impidince  av  the 
clivil,  had  Gintleman  Geff !"  exclaimed  Judy,  surprised  into 
her  dialect;  then,  suddenly  aware  of  her  "backsliding,"  she 
clapped  her  hand  to  her  mouth  a  minute  too  late  and  looked 
frightened ;  but  as  she  saw  that  neither  of  her  friends  were 
in  the  least  disturbed  she  felt  relieved,  while  the  visitor 
evidently  thought  that  the  brogue  had  been  humorously  as 
sumed  for  the  occasion,  for  she  replied  in  kind : 

"Ay,  has  he — the  thaif  av  the  worruld!"  Then,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Walling,  she  continued:  "What  an  active  fate  there 
seems  to  the  at  work  here !  Did  you  see  the  significance  of 
the  latter  part  of  Jennie's  letter?" 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  her  father  has  left  Medge,  in  the  south 
of  England,  and  is  in  temporary  charge  of  Haymore  vicar 
age,  in  the  north  of  England,"  replied  Mrs.  Walling. 

"And  our  Gentleman  Geff  of  the  many  wives  and  aliases, 
in  trying  to  escape  his  one  real  wife  and  avoid  her  father 
by  getting  off  the  steamer  at  Queenstown  will  unwittingly 
rush  into  their  power  again  the  moment  he  sets  foot  within 
his  stolen  estate  at  Haymore.  Now,  if  his  lawful  wife  had 
been  anybody  else  there  might  be  a  chance  for  a  show  of 
fight.  But  the  daughter  of  the  Vicar  of  Haymore !" 

"Ah  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walling,  drawing  her  breath  hard. 

"Jennie  writes  of  the  great  preparations  they  are  making 
at  Haymore  to  receive  the  usurping  squire,  who  is  now  ex 
pected  to  arrive  with  a  large  party  of  invited  friends  for 
the  Christmas  holidays,  little  knowing  that  he  will  there 
meet  his  lawful  wife  and  her  avenging,  priestly  father." 

"And  confront  the  lawful  heir  of  Haymore  with  the  more 
terrible  family  solicitors/'  laughed  Mrs.  Walling. 

"Then  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay  is  really  going  over  at  once  to 
take  possession  of  his  estates  ?"  inquired  the  visitor. 

"Yes;  he  sails  on  Saturday;  but  not  alone — he  takes  his 
wife  with  him.  He  will  be  married  on  Saturday  morning 
and  embark  in  the  afternoon." 

"Ah,  indeed!    That  is  news.    I  had  heard  no  rumor  of 


FOR  WHOSE 

his  being  engaged,  or  even  attentive  «t6^  ai>y'  of 
Who  is  she?" 

"  My  young  friend  here,"  replied  Mrs.  Walling,  pointing 
to  Judy. 

Mrs.  Duncan  jumped  up  and  kissed  the  girl  with  effu 
sions  and  congratulations. 

Judy  blushed  and  smiled  and  bowed,  but  did  not  venture 
to  speak  again. 

"The  wedding  is  to  be  quiet.  We  don't  want  a  second 
edition  of  the  'princely  nuptials'  of  'Mr.  Randolph  Hay' 
and  Miss  Lamia  Leegh.  They,  we  think,  have  done  enough 
in  that  way  'for  the  honor  of  the  family.'  Our  wedding 
must  be  very  plain.  There  are  'no  cards/  I  will  not  say 
there  will  also  be  'no  cake,  no  nothing/  So,  as  you  are  in 
terested,  if  you  will  drop  in,  'promiscuous!}-,'  at  the  'Little 
Churcsh  Around  the  Corner'  about  ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  you  will  witness  one  of  the  happiest,  though  not 
one  of  the  grandest,  weddings  on  record." 

"I  shall  do  myself  that  pleasure  without  a  doubt,"  replied 
Mrs.  Duncan. 

And  then  she  arose  and  took  up  her  muff  and  hand-bag  to 
intimate  that  she  was  ready  to  go. 

And  the  four  ladies  entered  the  close  carriage  that  was 
waiting  at  the  door  and  went  on  their  shopping  expedition. 

It  was  perfectly  successful,  even  to  the  sea  cloak,  a  heavy 
cloth  one,  reaching  from  head  to  heel,  having  long  sleeves 
and  hood,  and  lined  throughout  with  fur. 

They  took  Mrs.  Duncan  to  her  door. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  would  rather  see  than  the  wed 
ding,"  said  Mrs.  Duncan. 

"And  what  is  that?"  inquired  Augusta  Walling. 

"The  circus  at  Haymore  Court  when  Mr.  Randolph  Hay 
and  his  wife  arrive  there  and  meet  Gentleman  Geff  and 
Miss  Lamia  Leegh." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  BLITHE  BRIDAL 

IT  was  a  splendid  winter  morning.    The  snow,  which  had 
fallen  thickly  during  the  night,  was  now  frozen  hard  on  the 


iroa  •  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE  ? 

gi'oi^iiji,.  vthe  \  Housetops  and  the  trees,  and  sparkled  like 
frosted  silver  sprinkled  with  diamond  dust  in  the  dazzling 
sunshine. 

Mrs.  Walling's  household  was  astir.  They  were  to  have 
an  early  family  breakfast  before  dressing  to  go  to  church. 

Mrs.  Walling  and  her  young  protegee  met  in  the  break 
fast  room.  Judy  was  pale  and  nervous. 

"Good-morning,  my  dear.  Do  you  see  that  the  clouds 
have  gone  with  the  night  ?  A  good  omen  for  you,  according 
to  the  folklore — 'Blessed  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines 
on/  "  said  the  lady  as  she  drew  the  girl  to  her  bosom  and 
pressed  a  kiss  on  her  brow. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  I  have  prayed  the  Lord  to  bless  the  day  for 
Kan's  sake,  but  my  heart  misgives  me,  ma'ani,"  sighed 
Judy. 

"  That  is  very  natural,  but  in  your  case  very  unreasonable, 
my  child.  I  never  knew  nuptials  more  promising  for  future 
happiness  than  are  yours  and  Randolph's." 

"Oh,  but,  ma'am,  am  I  a  fit  wife  for  a  gentleman?" 

"Xot  for  every  gentleman;  for  there  are  not  so  many 
gentlemen  who  would  be  as  worthy  of  you  as  Randolph  Hay 
is.  But  why  should  you  think  that  you  are  not  fit  for  him  ?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I  am  only  a  poor,  ignorant  girl,  and,  with 
all  the  pains  you  and  Mrs.  Moseley  have  taken  with  me,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  improve  much.  Only  yesterday  I  for 
got  my  manners  before  the  strange  lady." 

"You  mean  that  you  fell  for  a  moment  into  the  sweet  dia 
lect  of  your  childhood?  That  did  no  harm,  Judy.  And, 
besides,  when  you  go  to  London  you  will  soon  drop  it  alto 
gether." 

"We  are  to  live  in  retirement,  to  tbe  sure,  until  we  are 
both  trained  for  society,  I  know.  But  still,  for  all  that,  I 
fear  I  am  doing  Ran  a  wrong  to  marry  him." 

"Look  here,  Judy!  You  and  Randolph  were  engaged  to 
be  married  to  each  other,  I  think,  while  you  were  both  in 
the  miners'  camp — you  a  miner's  sister;  Ran  a  miner  and 
the  partner  of  your  brother.  You,  neither  of  you,  dreamed 
of  any  higher  position  or  better  fortune  than  luck  in  the 
mines  might  bring  you.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Now  suppose  that  it  had  been  to  you, 
instead  of  to  Randolph,  that  the  unexpected  fortune  had 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  103 

come?  Suppose  that  some  nobleman  of  high  rank  and 
wealth  had  suddenly  come  forward  and  claimed  you  as  his 
lost  child  and  heiress,  would  you  then  have  broken  off  with 
poor  Kan,  because  he  was  only  a  poor  miner?" 

"No  !  No  !  No  !"  cried  Judy  with  flashing  eyes  and  ris 
ing  excitement,  "I  nivir  could  a  bin  such  a  baste  av  the 
wurruld !" 

Then  she  suddenly  stopped  and  clapped  her  hands  to  her 
lips. 

"But  if  Randolph  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he,  a 
poor  miner,  was  no  fit  husband  for  you  under  your  changed 
circumstances,  what  would  you  have  done  ?" 

"I  should  have  broken  me  harrt  entirely!"  exclaimed 
Judy,  failing  again  into  dialect,  as  she  always  did  when 
strongly  moved. 

"And  yet  you  can  talk  about  not  being  a  fit  wife  for 
Randolph,  just  because,  since  his  engagement  to  you,  he 
has  come  into  a  fortune.  My  dear,  you  should  consider 
your  betrothal  so  sacred  that  no  change  of  fortune  could  be 
able  to  affect  it." 

"I  see  it,  ma'am!  I  see  it!  And  I  will  say  no  more 
about  it,"  said  Judy,  smiling  through  her  timid  tears. 

"And  now  we  will  have  breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  Walling, 
rising  and  ringing  the  bell. 

The  tray  was  brought  in  at  one  door,  while  Mr.  Walling 
came  in  at  the  other,  and  the  three  sat  down  to  breakfast, 
the  master  of  the  house  merely  greeting  the  guest  with  a 
kindly : 

"Good-morning,  my  dear,"  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the 
table. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  finished  they  separated  to  dress 
for  church. 

I  would  like,  also,  to  give  my  reader  a  glimpse  of  the 
joung  bridegroom-expectant  on  this  the  morning  of  his 
wedding  day,  in  his  temporary  home  in  the  apartment  house 
occupied  by  Stuart  and  Palma. 

The  three  young  people  breakfasted  together  in  the  little, 
elegant  parlor  of  the  Stuarts'  suite  of  rooms,  Mrs.  Pole 
waiting  on  them. 

Ran's  face  shone  with  joy  that  he  could  not  hide;  Cleve's 
and  Palma's  were  bright  with  sympathetic  smiles. 

Ran  had  entreated  Mike  Man  to  come  and  share  his 


104  FOE  WHOSE  SAKE? 

rooms  at  these  flats  until  the  wedding  day  and  the  embark 
ation  for  Europe,  but  Mike  had  steadily  refused,  declaring 
that,  well  as  he  loved  his  brother-in-law,  he  would  be  out  of 
place  among  Kan's  fine  friends,  and  that  he  would  feel  more 
at  home  " along  wid  Samson  and  Dandy."  Mike  had  de 
cided  to  accompany  these  old  friends  to  Europe,  in  the  sec 
ond  cabin  of  the  same  steamer  on  which  Ran  had  taken  a 
stateroom  in  the  first  cabin  for  himself  and  his  bride.  These 
three  miners  were  going  home  to  the  old  country  to  settle 
there.  Different  motives  actuated  the  three.  Old  Dandy 
wished  to  spend  his  declining  years  among  old  friends. 
Longman  wanted  to  return  to  his  aged  and  widowed  mother. 
Mike  could  not  stay  behind  all  his  friends,  and  must  go  with 
them. 

What  each  was  to  do  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean  was 
not  very  clear,  even  to  themselves.  Each  had  a  little  money 
saved  up.  Dandy  thought  he  would  sink  his  savings  in  a 
life  annuity.  Longman  hoped  to  get  a  gamekeeper's  place 
on  some  estate.  Mike  wanted  to  go  to  school  for  a  little 
while.  He  was  really  nineteen  years  old,  but  so  small  and 
slender  that  he  might  easily  have  passed  for  a  schoolboy. 
But  he  meant  to  keep  near  his  mining  "pards,"  so  as  not  to 
"inthrude"  on  Ran  and  Judy  and  their  fine  friends. 

Vainly  had  faithful  Ran  combated  this  resolution.  Mike 
had  been  firm,  and  Ran  had  to  yield  the  point. 

Now,  as  Ran  sat  at  table  with  Stuart  and  Palma,  the 
latter  said  to  him : 

"You.  and  Judy  will  be  married  as  Cleve  and  myself 
were — without  bridesmaid  or  groomsman. " 

"Yes,"  said  Ran;  "but  it  is  not  my  fault  or  Judy's.  I 
wanted  Judy's  brother,  my  old  partner,  Mike  Man,  to  be 
my  groomsman,  which  would  have  been  right  enough;  but 
Mike  stoutly  refused.  If  Mike  had  consented  to  stand  up 
with  me,  then  Judy  might  have  had  a  bridesmaid  in  one  of 
the  Moseley  young  ladies.  But,  no;  Mike  was  as  stubborn 
as  a  mule.  To  be  sure,  I  know  that  Mr.  Jim  Moseley  and 
Miss  Betty  Moseley  would  have  kindly  stood  up  with  us, 
but  Judy  said  no;  and  so  we  must  stand  up  alone." 

"It  is  just  as  well.  And  now,  my  dear,"  said  Palma, 
rising  from  her  seat  with  a  pretty  little  matronly  air  of 
authority,  "as  you  have  finished  your  breakfast,  you  had 
better  go  and  dress  yourself.  Your  carriage  was  ordered 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  105 

at  half-past  nine,  I  think.  When  you  "have  finished,  come 
to  me  that  I  may  put  the  last  touches  on  your  toilet— twirl 
the  curls  and  mustache,,  and  pin  the  boutonniere,  as  you 
have  no  valet.  Though,  I  suppose,  you  will  set  up  some 
Monsieur  Frangipanni  as  your  personal  attendant  and 
dresser." 

"Thank  you,  Cousin  Palma.  Never!  Never!  I  should 
be  too  much  in  awe  of  such  a  grand  dignitary,"  said  Ean, 
laughing,  as  he  left  the  room. 

"What  a  happy  dog  he  is,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  Stuart  to 
his  wife  as  they  also  retired  to  dress  for  the  wedding. 

Meanwhile,  at  this  same  hour,  in  an  upper  room  at 
Markiss'  Hotel  on  Water  Street,  another  scene  of  prepara 
tion  was  going  on. 

Samson  Longman,  Andrew  Quin,  and  Michael  Man  were 
dressing  for  the  wedding. 

The  three  men  were  fresh  from  the  bath  and  the  barber. 
Longman  had  his  hair  cut  and  his  fine,  flowing  beard 
dressed,  and,  with  his  strong,  regular  features  and  his  clear, 
blue  eyes,  looked  a  very  handsome  colossus,  indeed.  He  wore 
a  fashionable  dress  suit  of  black  cloth,  with  a  vest  of  black 
satin,  a  small  white  tie,  a  tea  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  white 
kid  gloves  and  patent  leather  boots. 

He  looked  every  inch  a  gentleman,  as  he  really  was. 

Dandy  had  had  his  red  hair  and  side  whiskers  trimmed 
and  dressed.  He  also  wore  a  dress  suit  of  exactly  the  same 
style  of  Longman's,  even  to  the  little  details  of  the  white 
tie,  tea  rose,  kid  gloves  and  patent  leathers. 

Mike,  with  his  short,  dark,  curly  hair  neatly  arranged,  his 
fresh  face,  innocent  of  beard  or  mustache,  and  his  slight 
figure  in  a  dress  suit  proper  to  the  occasion,  looked  like 
a  boy  got  up  for  a  birthday  party,  or  a  freshman  ready  for 
his  first  college  exhibition. 

"  Come,  Mike !  Stop  admiring  yourself  and  hurry  up. 
Dandy,  come !  It  is  nine  o'clock,  and  time  to  start  if  we 
are  to  reach  the  church  and  get  seated  in  time  to  see  the 
wedding  party  come  in,"  said  Longman. 

"  Eh,  Lorrd !  But  me  courage  has  sunk  down  into  the 
bottom  av  me  boots !  What  would  ail  me  to  be  pushing 
meself  amongst  gentlefolk,  anyway?"  exclaimed  the  nervous 
old  man. 

"Because  it  is  my  own  Ean  and  Judy's  wedding,  sure, 


106  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

and  you  are  invited.  And  they  would  feel  hurt  by  your 
absince,"  replied  Mike. 

"Eh,  Lorrd,  I  wouldn't  mind  the  church  so  much.  Sure, 
ivirybody's  free  to  go  into  a  church.  But  it's  the  breakfast. 
Sure,  an'  I  nivir  sat  down  to  the  table  wid  gentlefolks  in 
all  my  life,  and  wouldn't  know  more'n  the  babe  just  born 
how  to  behave  myself,  Lorrd!  and  if  all  tales  be  thrue, 
gentlefolks'  ways  at  table  is  that  diffunt  from  our'n !" 
sighed  Dandy. 

"I  suppose  they  eat,  and  drink,  and  talk,  and  laugh  pretty 
much  as  other  people  do.  Take  courage,  Dandy,  old  man. 
Just  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass !  Why,  you  might  be  a 
Wall  Street  millionaire,  or  a  college  professor,  or  a  United 
States  Senator,  to  look  at  you,"  laughed  Longman. 

"I  know!"  exclaimed  Dandy  with  a  self-satisfied  smirk 
after  glancing  at  the  mirror.  "Sure,  'fine  feathers  make 
fine  birds !'  And  it  is  not  how  I  look,  at  all,  at  all,  but  how 
I'm  to  behave,  what  I'm  to  say,  and  what  I'm  to  do.  That's 
what  bothers  me." 

"Oh,  bosh!  You  needn't  do  anything  nor  say  anything 
unless  you  like  to.  As  for  behaving,  just  watch  other  peo 
ple  and  behave  as  they  do." 

"Now,  that's  a  first-rate  idea  o'  your^n,  Longman — first- 
rate.  And  I'll  jist  be  guided  by  that.  I'll  watch  the  gentry, 
and  behave  jist  as  they  do,  and  thin  I  can't  do  amiss !" 
exclaimed  Dandy,  brightening  up. 

A  very  dangerous  rule,  with  many  unsuspected  excep 
tions. 

"And  now  put  on  your  overcoats  and  draw  your  woolen 
mittens  over  your  white  kids,  and  come  along,  you  two,  or 
we  shall  be  late,"  said  Longman,  who  had  already  put  on 
all  his  outer  garments  and  stood  ready  to  march. 

When  the  three  men  were  quite  ready  they  went  down 
stairs  together,  walked  over  to  the  Fourth  *A  venue  cars, 
boarded  one  and  rode  uptown ;  got  out  at  Blank  Street,  and 
walked  to  the  church. 

There  was  no  sign  about  the  building  to  indicate  a  wed 
ding-  for  that  morning.  The  doors  were  closed,  and  there 
was  not  a  carriage  nor  a  human  being  near  the  sacred 
building. 

The  truth  is  that  the  Wallings  and  all  concerned  in  the 
affair  had  kept  the  intended  wedding  not  only  out  of  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

papers  but  out  of  all  gossiping  circles.  They  did  not  want 
to  have  a  sensational  supplement  to  the  magnificent  page 
antry  of  the  grand  Hay-Leegh  wedding.  And  their  reti 
cence  had  even  extended  to  a  firm  refusal  to  indorse  any 
journalistic  report  of  the  appearance  of  the  rightful  claim 
ant  to  the  Haymore  estate. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  hev  bin  af  ther  making  a  mistake  in 
the  place,  Mr.  Longman?"  inquired  Dandy,  looking  mis- 
trustingly  up  to  the  closed  and  silent  building. 

"No;  we're  the  first  that's  come,  that's  all.     Walk  in." 

And  so  saying  he  led  the  way,  opening  first  the  great 
black  walnut  outer  door  and  then  the  red  cloth  inner  door 
and  entering  the  church. 

There  they  found  the  sexton,  who  asked  them  for  cards. 

Longman  produced  the  three  informal  notes  written  by 
Mrs.  Walling,  and  the  sexton,  after  looking  at  them,  mar 
shaled  the  three  men  up  the  aisle,  between  empty  pews,  to 
seats  near  the  altar,  where  they  sat  down. 

When  they  had  become  accustomed  to  the  "dim  religious 
light"  of  the  interior,  they  perceived  that  they  themselves 
were  the  only  persons  in  the  church. 

"You  see  that  we  are  early,"  said  Longman. 

"Well,  sure,  thin,  I'm  not  sorry.  I  can  compose  the 
narves  av  me,"  replied  Dandy. 

They  drew  oft'  their  overcoats,  folded  them,  and  put  them 
under  the  seats,  shoved  their  silk  hats  after  the  coats,  and 
then  took  off  their  woolen  mitts,  rolled  them  up,  and  put 
them  in  their  pockets,  and  posed  themselves  for  the  scene 
expected. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  quite  a  large  party  en 
tered,  and  were  led  by  the  sexton  to  the  front  row  of  pews 
before  the  chancel. 

"It's  the  bowld  Col.  Moseley  and  his  tribe,  sure,"  said 
Mike  in  a  low  voice  to  his  companions. 

Dandy  looked  up. 

It  was  the  tribe,  indeed.  The  colonel,  his  wife  and  ten  of 
his  girls  and  boys.  The  two  youngest  children  had  been 
left  at  home  on  account  of  their  tender  age.  The  colonel's 
wife  wore  her  Sunday  suit  of  brown  satin,  with  a  brown 
velvet  bonnet  and  a  rich  old  India  shawl  that  had  been  an 
heirloom  in  her  family,  having  come  down  to  her  from  her 
great-grandmother.  Her  many  daughters  wore  plain  car- 


108  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

dinal-red  or  navy-blue  dresses,  with  plush  coats  and  felt 
hats  to  match. 

Next  entered  a  single  pair,  unknown  to  Longman  and 
Dandy,  but  not  to  us.  They  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleve 
Stuart.  Palma  wore  her  lovely  suit  of  navy-blue  demassee 
velvet,  with  turban  to  match. 

They  were  provided  with  seats  to  the  left  of  the  Moseleys. 

A  few  minutes  after  them  came  a  lady  alone.  She  was 
Mrs.  Duncan,  in  a  plum-colored  satin  dress  and  a  sealskin 
coat  and  cap. 

Finally,  just  as  the  organ  began  to  peal  forth  a  magnifi 
cent  wedding  march,  streamed  in  two  processions  from  two 
opposite  points. 

First,  out  from  the  vestry  door  came  two  white-robed 
clergymen,  with  open  books  in  their  hands,  followed  by  the 
bridegroom,  in  evening  dress,  with  a  white  rose  in  his  but 
tonhole. 

"Ah,  thin,  see  till  our  broth  av  a  b'hoy !  Sure,  don't  his 
face  shine  like  the  morning  starr  itself?"  whispered  Dandy 
to  his  companion. 

Longman  looked  and  saw  Ran,  with  his  brow  radiant  with 
frank  happiness  which  he  did  not  think  of  suppressing. 

"Whish!  Look  down  the  aisle  itself!  There  comes  me 
swate  swish ter  !  Och  !  what  an  angel !"  murmured  Mike. 

Longman  looked  and  smiled. 

Dandy  turned  his  head  and  caught  his  breath.  He  had 
never  in  all  his  life  seen  anything  half  so  lovely  as  little 
Judy  in  her  bridal  array.  And  yet  her  dress  was  simple 
enough.  She  wore  a  plain  white  silk,  trained;  a  white  tulle 
overskirt,  looped  with  sprays  of  oragne  buds ;  a  white  tulle 
veil,  fastened  above  her  curly,  black  hair  with  sprigs  of 
orange  buds;  and  on  her  neck  and  arms  a  set  of  pearls  given 
her  by  Ran.  Her  eyes  were  cast  down  until  their  long, 
sweeping,  black  lashes  lay  on  her  slightly  flushed  oval 
cheeks.  She  came  slowly,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Samuel 
Walling,  who  was  to  give  her  away. 

No  doubt  her  brother  would  have  been  asked  to  perform 
this  service,  but  that  he  was  under  age.  And,  besides,  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  honor  of  taking  so  conspicuous 
a  part  in  the  ceremony,  since  he  would  not  even  officiate 
as  groomsman. 

Bekind  them  came  Mrs.  Samuel  Walling,  in  a  superb  suit 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  109 

of  ruby  brocaded  velvet,  with  turban  to  match.  She  was 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  brother-in-law,  Mr.  William 
Walling. 

The  two  clergymen  advanced  to  the  altar  railing  with 
open  books  in  their  hands. 

The  bridegroom  met  the  bride  and  took  her  hand;  both 
bowed  to  the  officiating  ministers,  and  then  knelt  down  on 
the  hassocks  before  the  altar. 

Their  immediate  friends  drew  around  them.  The  com 
pany  in  the  pews  stood  up. 

Mike  bent  eagerly,  breathlessly  forward. 

The  ceremony  began.  It  continued  amid  a  breathless  si 
lence,  unbroken  except  by  the  voices  of  the  officiating  min 
isters  and  responses  of  the  kneeling  pair  before  them,  and 
the  short  reply  of  the  "church  father"  in  bestowing  "this 
woman'7  upon  "this  man." 

After  the  benediction  was  pronounced  friends  crowded 
around  the  newly  wedded  young  pair  with  congratulations 
that  were  not  merely  conventional,  but  earnest,  heartfelt. 

Mike  crept  out  of  his  pew,  glided  easily  through  the 
crowd,  and  stood  before  his  sister  and  brother-in-law,  mute, 
unable  to  speak,  still  looking  like  a  very  shy  schoolboy  at 
his  college  exhibition. 

But  Kan  seized  his  hand  and  shook  it  heartily,  and  held 
it  fast  while  he  said : 

"Mike — dear  boy — we  were  always  brothers  in  heart,  and 
now  we  are  brothers  in  reality !  Are  you  not  going  to  em 
brace  your  sister?  She  is  not  less  your  sister  because  she 
is  my  wife,  but  more  so,  for  she  has  married  your  bosom's 
everlating  brother." 

Mike  then  turned  to  Judy,  who  opened  her  arms  and 
folded  him  to  her  heart  in  a  warm  embrace. 

Longman  and  Dandy  hung  back  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  the  old  man  stood  up  and  said: 

"1  can't  stand  it  at  all,  at  all !  Sure,  I  must  go  and  spake 
to  the  darlints !" 

And  out  of  the  pew  he  went,  and  up  to  the  chancel,  where 
"fine"  friends  were  still  surrounding  the  young  pair. 

They  made  way  for  the  eager  old  man  as  he  pushed 
through  the  group  and  confronted  Ran  and  Judy,  offering 
each  a  hand  and  crying  with  emotion: 

"I've  come  to  wish  ye  the  blissing  av  the  Lord  and  all 


110  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

His  holy  saints,  me  brave  bhoy  and  gurrul — I  mane  Misther 
and  Misthress  Randolph  Hay  av  Hayti!" 

Ran  and  Judy  took  each  a  hand  of  the  old  miner  and 
said  something  inarticulate  in  kindly  thanks.  Then,  seeing 
Longman  standing  behind  and  towering  above  Dandy,  Ran 
held  up  his  hand  and  the  colossus  came  forward  and  offered 
his  congratulations,  which  both  Ran  and  Judy  received 
with  much  hearty  feeling. 

"I  do  not  forget,  Longman,  that  I  never  should  have 
lived  to  see  this  happy  day  but  for  you,"  said  Ran,  warmly 
pressing  his  hands,  while  Judy's  smile  expressed  all  that  she 
also  would  have  said  if  she  could  have  spoken. 

"Come,  my  young  friends,"  said  Mr.  Samuel  Walling, 
approaching  the  group,  "we  must  not  keep  the  reverend 
gentlemen  waiting;  we  must  go  into  the  vestry  room  and 
sign  the  register."  And  he  drew  Judy's  arm  within  his 
own  and  carried  her  off,  followed  by  Ran  and  the  rest. 

When  this  form  was  completed  the  small  company  left 
the  church. 

There  were  but  two  carriages  waiting  before  the  door. 
One  was  Mrs.  Waiting's,  in  which  she  had  brought  the  bride 
to  the  church ;  the  other  was  Ran's,  in  which  he  was  going  to 
take  his  wife  back. 

Mrs.  Walling  stood  until  she  had  seen  Ran  hand  Judy 
into  the  clarence  and  take  his  seat  beside  her,  when  she 
turned  to  William  Walling  and  said: 

"Well !  I  would  like  to  give  you  a  seat  back  to  the  house; 
but  I  want  to  take  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart.  Go  up  in  the 
street  car — that  is  a  good  fellow !  And  while  you  are  at  it 
see  after  those  poor  fellows  from  the  mines.  Get  them  into 
the  same  car  with  yourself,  so  that  they  won't  miss  their 
way." 

"  All  right !"  exclaimed  good-humored  Mr.  Will.  "  Where 
are  the  bears  ?" 

"There  they  are!"  she  said,  nodding  toward  the  three 
men  coming  from  the  church  door.  "Go  and  introduce 
yourself  to  them,  and  then  you  will  be  capable  of  bringing 
them  up  to  the  house  and  presenting  them  to  your  brother 
and  myself.  They  are  great  friends  of  Ran,  you  know.  One 
of  them  saved  his  life !  They  came  with  the  colonel's  fam 
ily  and  Judy  from  California.  Now  be  off!"  added  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  Ill 

lady  as  she  saw  her  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart,  approach 
ing,  and  went  to  meet  them,  saying  to  Palma : 

"My  dear,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  come  out.  I 
have  two  vacant  places  in  my  carriage.  I  should  be  much 
pleased  if  you  and  Mr.  Stuart  would  take  them." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  You  are  very  kind,"  said 
Palma,  accepting  the  offer  as  frankly  as  it  was  given. 

Stuart  bowed — there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  say  or 
do.  The  "ladies"  had  made  the  arrangement!  That  was 
enough  for  the  Southern  gentleman. 

They  entered  the  carriage  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walling 
and  were  driven  rapidly  uptown. 

The  colonePs  large  family  crowded  into  a  street  car. 

Will  Walling,  Longman  and  Dandy  found  seats  in  an 
other  car. 

And  so  the  wedding  guests  went  their  way  to  the  Walling 
house. 

Arrived  there,  the  ladies  and  children,  only  nine  in  all, 
were  shown  into  an  upper  room  to  lay  off  their  bonnets  and 
wraps  and  add  bouquets  and  white  kid  gloves  to  their 
toilets. 

The  gentlemen,  ten  in  all,  were  shown  into  another  room 
for  light  changes. 

And  after  half  an  hour's  performances  they  all  filed 
clown  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  found  their  host 
and  hostess,  and  the  bride  and  groom,  waiting  to  receive 
them. 

Here  also  the  wedding  presents  were  on  view  for  a  short 
time,  before  being  packed  and  dispatched  to  the  steamer, 
which  was  to  be  effected  while  the  company  should  be  at 
table.  There  was  a  silver  tea  service  from  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Walling;  a  silver  salver  from  Mr.  Will;  a  gold  watch  and 
chain  from  Col.  and  Mrs.  Moseley;  a  box  of  fine  handker 
chiefs  from  Cleve  and  Palma  Stuart — this  was  the  same 
box  that  had  been  given  by  Cleve  to  Palma  months  before, 
but  not  a  handkerchief  had  been  disturbed,  and  having 
nothing  else  to  give  she  gave  it  now,  with  Cleve's  consent. 
There  was  a  gold  chain  and  cross  from  Mike ;  a  pretty  hand 
bag  from  Longman,  a  workbox  from  Dandy,  and  various 
dainty  trifles,  mostly  of  their  own  manufacture,  from  the 
Moseley  girls  and  boys. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

A  little  later  the  butler  slid  back  the  rolling  portieres  and 
announced  breakfast,  which  was  laid  in  a  long  rear  room. 

The  wedding  party — host  and  hostess,  bride  and  groom, 
and  guests,  filed  in  and  seated  themselves  at  the  table — nine 
on  each  side,  host  and  hostess  at  the  head  and  foot.  Ran 
and  Judy  sat  on  the  right  side  of  Mrs.  Walling,  Col.  and 
Mrs.  Moseley  on  her  left.  Below  Judy  sat  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cleve  Stuart.  Below  Mrs.  Moseley  sat  Mr.  William  Walling 
and  Mrs.  Duncan. 

Longman  sat  on  Mr.  Walling's  right  hand,  and  Dandy 
on  his  left.  Other  guests,  chiefly  the  young  people  of  the 
colonePs  family,  filled  all  the  other  seats.  Mike  sat  half 
way  up  on  the  right  side  of  the  board. 

Two  waiters,  in  black  dress  suits,  white  satin  waistcoats 
and  kid  gloves,  served  the  guests. 

Tea,  coffee  or  chocolate  was  offered. 

Dandy  took  tea — in  what  a  little,  fragile  eggshell  of  a 
cup !  How  different  from  the  massive,  yellow  bowl  from 
which  he  used  to  gulp  great  draughts  of  that  rare  luxury,  or 
something  made  up  to  imitate  it. 

He  was  afraid  to  touch  this  chrysalis  for  fear  he  should 
crush  it.  Pie  left  it  on  the  table  before  him,  and  following 
Longman's  given  rule,  watched  to  see  how  other  people 
handled  their  cups;  as  a  matter  of  detail,  he  watched  Col. 
Moseley,  who  stood,  in  his  estimation,  for  the  most  perfect 
gentleman  he  knew. 

By  this  precaution  he  avoided  the  mistake  of  pouring 
his  tea  into  his  saucer,  which  otherwise  he  would  surely 
have  done;  for  what  on  earth  else  were  saucers  made  for 
anyhow? 

Presently  came  around  the  boned  turkey  and  the  chicken 
salad. 

Dandy  chose  the  salad.  But  where  was  the  knife  with 
which  to  shovel  the  delicious  compounds  into  his  capacious 
mouth  ?  Clearly  the  waiter  had  neglected  his  duty  in  pro 
viding  a  knife,  for  there  was  nothing  beside  his  plate  but 
a  silver  instrument  with  four  fine  prongs.  In  despair  he 
looked  in  the  direction  of  his  model,  the  colonel,  and  saw 
that  gentleman  eating  with  the  silver  thing,  holding  it  in 
his  right  hand.  All  the  others  round  the  table  were  doing 
the  same  thing ! 

Old  Dandy  shook  his  head,  saying  within  himself : 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  113 

"Sure,  and  I  don't  like  these  newfangled  ways;  they 
ain't  Irish,  nor  'Merican,  nor  they  ain't  natural,  nuther ! 
But  it's  a  baste  I  am  to  be  finding  fault  at  Ean's  wedding, 
so  it  is." 

And  then  Dandy  ate  his  salad  as  well  as  he  could  with 
his  unaccustomed  instrument. 

The  fest  went  on,  and  delicacy  after  delcacy  was  served. 
Plates  were  often  changed,  dishes  were  changed.  Tea,  cof 
fee  and  chocolate  gave  place  to  tokay,  champagne  and 
johanisberg. 

Dandy,  following  what  he  considered  a  safe  rule,  but 
which  was  soon  proved  to  be  anything  else  but  safe,  did  as 
he  saw  other  people  do,  and  got  through  the  feast  very 
creditably  until  at  length  Col.  Moseley  arose  in  his  place 
and  called  the  attention  of  the  company  in  a  neat  little 
speach,  which  he  concluded  with : 

"And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have  the  honor  to 
propose  the  health  of  the  bride  and  groom." 

Up  jumped  Dandy  to  do  as  other  people — notably  his 
model  colonel  did,  and  exclaimed: 

"Me,  too,  ladies  and  gintlemin !  I  purpoose  the  good 
health  of  the  bride  and  groom !" 

Consternation  fell  for  a  moment  on  the  company,  but  the 
colonel  had  suffered  more  than  one  "surprise"  in  the  course 
of  his  military  life,  and  he  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  in  the  name  of  our  friends,"  he  said 
gravely,  bowing  to  Dandy.  "Then,  gentlemen,  fill  up  your 
glasses." 

The  toast  was  honored.  And  no  one  felt  more  satisfied 
with  himself  and  with  all  the  world  than  did  Dandy  Quin. 

Other  toasts  were  offered  and  equally  honored,  Dandy 
taking  a  conspicuous  part  in  every  one. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  the  guests  sat  down  to  the 
table.  It  was  two  when  they  arose  and  withdrew  to  the 
drawing-room. 

Then  Judy  went  upstairs  to  change  her  light  bridal  dress 
for  the  heavy  green  cloth  suit  that  was  to  defend  her  from 
the  wintry  winds  of  the  open  sea. 

At  her  earnest  request  no  one  was  to  go  down  to  the 
steamer  to  see  them  off. 

"Because  I  shall  behave  badly.  I  know  I  shall.  I  shall 
cry.  And  it  is  so  awful  to  cry  in  public !"  said  Judy. 


114  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

All  her  effects  had  been  packed  and  sent  on  the  steamer, 
except  the  one  little  trunk  into  which  her  last  belongings 
were  to  go,  and  which  was  to  be  put  into  the  carriage  with 
her. 

So  as  soon  as  she  was  dressed  for  the  departure — cloth 
suit,  fur-lined  cloak,  beaver  poke  and  all — she  came  down 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  all  her  friends  were  as 
sembled,  and  there  she  bade  them  all  good-by.  She  kissed, 
embraced  and  wept  over  her  friends,  one  after  the  other; 
but  when  she  came  to  Mrs.  Moseley  she  clung  to  her  as  if 
she  could  never  leave  her,  weeping  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

At  last  it  was  that  tender  lady  herself  who  gently  un- 
vround  the  girl's  arms  from  around  her  neck,  and  stooping, 
wh  ispered : 

"Look  at  Ran,  dear.  See  how  distressed  he  is.  He  must 
not  see  you  grieve  so!" 

Judy  hastily  wiped  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Moseley  beckoned  Ran,  who  came  forward  and  re 
ceived  the  girl  from  the  lady's  arms. 

"Oh,  Ran,  dear,"  sobbed  Judy,  falling  into  her  dialect, 
"don't  ye  moind  me  crying.  Sure  it's  a  cowld-harrted  cray- 
chur  I'd  be  not  to  graive,  parting  with  the  loikes  av  her,  a 
rale  highborn  leddy  as  has  ben  sich  a  mother  to  me." 

"My  own  dear  Judy!1"  whispered  Ran.  And  that  was 
all  he  could  say. 

Mike  had  taken  leave  of  all  his  friends  and  had  gone 
on  before.  But  there  were  two  more  whom  Judy  thought 
she  must  bid  good-by  to. 

"Where  is  Misther  Longman  and  Uncle  Dandy?" 

"Here  we  are,  Misthress  Hay!"  answered  old  Dandy 
from  the  hall. 

"Oh!  I  must  bid  ye  good-by,  dear  Mnds!"  said  Judy, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

"Nivir  a  bit  of  it,  hinny.  Sure  we're  all  in  the  same  boat ! 
That  is,  the  same  stamer !  We  go  wid  ye  across  the  say ! 
On'y  ye's  go  in  the  grand  first  cabin,  and  we  go  in  the 
sicond.  Our  duds  went  on  board  this  morning,  and  Mike's 
gone  down  to  the  tovvurn  to  pay  our  score.  And,  sure,  he'll 
join  us  on  the  stamer!"  said  Dandy. 

"  Oh !  I  knew  Mike  was  to  go  with  us,  but  didn't  know 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  115 

you  were.  I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  with  us !"  exclaimed 
Judy,  drying  her  last  tears. 

But  Ran  was  hurrying  her  into  the  carriage  that  was  to 
take  them  to  the  steamer.  When  he  had  placed  her  in  her 
seat  he  returned  to  speak  to  the  two  men. 

"Since  you  are  going  in  the  same  ship,  ride  down  with 
us.  There  are  two  vacant  seats  in  our  carriage,"  he  said. 

"Couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing!"  exclaimed  Longman, 
laughing.  "What !  intrude  on  a  bride  and  groom !  We  ap 
preciate  your  magnanimity  and  thank  you  mightily,  but  we 
couldn't  think  of  it!" 

And  though  Ran  urged  his  invitation,  Longman  steadily 
refused  it,  much  to  Dandy's  disgust,  who  would  willingly 
have  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  ride  in  that  elegant  clarence. 

"We  will  go  down  in  the  horse  cars  and  get  there  before 
you.  You'll  find  us  on  deck  when  you  arrive.  Come, 
Dandy !"  said  Longman,  and  raising  his  felt  wide-awake,  he 
walked  away,  carrying  oft'  his  unwilling  little  old  friend. 

Ran  entered  the  carriage  and  gave  the  order  to  the  coach 
man.  And  they  started  for  the  steamer. 

A  half-hour's  drive  brought  them  to  the  crowded  pier, 
and  five  minutes'  struggle  through  the  confusion  transferred 
them  to  the  deck  of  the  Boadicca,  where  they  found  Will 
Walling,  Mike,  Longman,  and  Dandy  waiting  for  them. 

"No  more  partings  here,  dear  Judy.  Here  are  meet 
ings  !"  said  Ran  with  a  smile. 

An  hour  later  the  Boadicea  sailed. 

At  that  same  moment  Mrs.  Duncan,  taking  leave  of  Mrs. 
Walling,  repeated  her  words : 

"Ah !  won't  there  be  a  circus  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph  Hay  confront  Gentleman  Geff  and  Miss  Leegh  at 
Havmore  !  How  I  would  like  to  be  there  !" 


CHAPTER  XII 

DARKEST  BEFORE  DAY 

STUAIIT  took  his  wife  home  from  the  wedding  breakfast. 
It  was  four  o'clock,  and  the  wintry  sun  was  low  on  the 
western  horizon. 


116  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Mrs.  Pole  had  a  good  fire  burning  in  the  little  grate  when 
they  entered  the  parlor. 

"See,  Poley !  I  have  brought  you  a  piece  of  the  wedding 
cake  to  dream  on,  you  know !"  said  Palma,  offering  a  pretty 
little  box  done  up  in  silver  paper. 

"Ah,  my  dear!  My  dreaming  days  are  long  past!  long 
past !"  sighed  the  old  woman,  as,  nevertheless,  she  took  the 
box. 

"What  a  prosaic  old  fogy  you  are,  Poley,  to  be  sure.  For 
that  matter  all  our  dreaming  days  are  over  after  we  are 
married,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  honey,  until  we  begin  to  dream  for  our  children." 

Palma  blushed  and  sank  into  sudden  silence.  She  was 
beginning  to  dream  sweet  dreams  of  motherhood,  but  that 
was  her  own  precious  secret,  she  imagined,  not  suspecting 
that  Mrs.  Pole  knew  as  much  about  it  as  she  did  herself,  and 
perhaps  more.  To  cover  her  confusion  she  laughed  and 
said: 

"Well,  Poley,  if  you  do  not  care  to  dream  on  the  cake 
yourself  you  can  give  it  to  some  young  friends  of  yours,  to 
one  of  your  many  cousins  or  nieces;  they  will  be  glad  to 
have  it." 

Then  she  threw  off  her  turban  and  her  wraps,  drew  off 
her  gloves  and  sank  into  an  easy-chair  before  the  fire. 

"  After  all,  it  is  good  to  be  quiet  at  home,  is  it  not,  01  eve  ? 
I  love  this  little  snuggery  of  ours.  We  can  live  very  hap 
pily  here  until  next  May,  and  then  flit  to  the  woods  and 
mountains  again.  I  think  I  like  our  simple  way  of  life, 
Cleve,  qutie  as  well,  if  not  better,  than  if  you  spent  all 
the  revenues  of  your  Mississippi  plantation  in  living  in  the 
grand  style  of  some  of  our  friends.  What  do  you  think, 
Cleve?"  she  inquired,  stretching  out  her  pretty  feet  to  the 
grateful  warmth  of  the  fire. 

He  did  not  answer  in  words — he  could  not ;  he  laid  his 
hand  tenderly  on  her  curly,  black  hair  and  turned  slowly 
away  and  went  out  of  the^room. 

Palma  received  the  caress  as  a  full  assent  to  all  that  she 
had  said,  and  smiled  to  herself  as  she  gazed  into  the  fire. 

Cleve  Stuart  went  downstairs  and  out  upon  the  sidewalk, 
and  paced  up  and  down  before  the  house.  This  was  his 
nightly  promenade  ground,  where  he  came  to  smoke  his 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  117 

cigar.     But  this,  evening  he  had  no  cigar,  nor  even  the 
wherewithal  to  get  one. 

Yes,  it  had  come  to  this — Cleve  Stuart  was  absolutely 
penniless.  He  had  paid  out  his  last  dime  on  the  horse  cars 
that  brought  himself  and  his  wife  from  the  wedding  break 
fast.  This  was  Saturday,  the  second  of  December.  On 
Monday,  the  fourth,  their  month's  rent  would  be  due,  and 
there  was  not  a  penny  to  meet  it. 

What  should  he  do? 

If  all  his  remaining  earthly  possessions  were  pawned  they 
would  not  bring  money  enough  to  meet  the  demand  of  their 
landlord. 

Nor  could  he  hope  for  any  forbearance  from  that  quarter. 
The  terms  of  the  contract  were  strict,  and  amounted,  in 
brief,  to  this:  "Pay  or  go." 

Nor  could  he  bring  himself  to  the  shame,  not  to  say  the 
dishonesty,  of  trying  to  borrow  money  which  he  could  fore 
see  no  way  of  paying. 

This  was  the  pass  to  which  his  marriage  with  Palma  had 
brought  him  !  Did  he  regret  his  marriage? 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "though  I  proposed  to  her,  first 
of  all,  under  the  diabolical  influence  of  the  beautiful  fiend 
who  had  me  in  her  power,  and  for  mercenary  purposes  that 
were  to  serve  us,  the  two  conspirators,  yet  for  one  redeem 
ing  event  I  do  thank  Providence — and  that  is  that  1  dis 
covered  Palma  to  be  penniless  as  well  as  invalided  before  I 
married  her.  Then  I  kept  faith  with  her ;  I  married  her ;  I 
saved  her  precious  life,  and  I  have  grown  to  know  her  and 
to  love  her  above  all  things  on  earth.  And  to  whatever 
straits  I  may  be  reduced,  and  however  much  I  may  suffer, 
I  will,  so  far  as  possible,  shield  my  beloved  one  from  know 
ing  them  or  sharing  them.  But  in  the  meantime  what  in 
the  name  of  Heaven  am  I  to  do?  And  what  is  to  become 
of  her?  Men  in  such  straits  as  mine  have  been  driven,  are 
daily  driven,  to  commit  suicide.  We  read  such  cases  in 
almost  every  paper,  and  often  with  the  concluding  com 
ment:  'No  motive  could  be  discovered  for  the  desperate 
deed/  I  suppose,  now,  if  I  were  to  be  so  lost  to  a  sense  of 
justice  as  to  end  my  trouble  with  a  shot  to-night,  it  would 
be  said  to-morrow:  'He  had  just  come  from  a  wedding 
breakfast,  where  he  appeared  among  the  happiest  of  the 
guests.  No  motive  can  be  surmised  for  his  desperate  deed.' 


118  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

As  if  men  paraded  their  perplexities  to  all  and  sundry,  in 
season  and  out  of  season,  and  wore  their  motives  and  inten 
tions  pinned  on  their  sleeves — especially  such  motives  and 
intentions.  Pah !  nothing  could  drive  me  to  such  a  deed. 
I  must  live  and  brave  my  fate,  trusting  in  Heaven,  doing 
my  duty !  But  all  the  same,  sweet  little  Palma,  if  it  were 
Heaven's  will,  I  think  it  would  be  well  if  you  and  I  should 
fall  asleep  to-night  and  never  awake  again  in  this  world !" 

So  deep,  so  painful,  so  absorbing  was  his  reverie  that  he 
did  not  perceive  the  approach  of  the  postman,  who  ran 
against  him  in  the  dark,  begged  his  pardon  and  passed  on 
until  he  reached  the  main  entrance  of  the  apartment  house, 
went  in,  came  out,  and  hurried  on  again  out  of  sight  up 
the  street. 

Stuart  had  scarcely  noticed  him,  beyond  muttering,  "Not 
at  all,"  when  the  other  had  said,  "Beg  pardon,  sir."  And 
now  he  thought  no  more  of  the  incident,  but  continued  his 
walk  for  an  hour,  as  if  by  wearying  his  body  he  might 
relieve  his  mind. 

Presently,  thinking  that  this  was  their  dinner  hour, 
though  he  had  little  appetite  for  dinner  just  now,  he  turned 
and  entered  the  hall.  He  did  not  ring  up  the  elevator,  but 
he  walked  heavily  up  the  five  flights  of  stairs.  It  was  a 
mental  relief  to  fatigue  himself  to  faintness. 

He  entered  the  little  parlor  and  found,  not  dinner,  but 
the  tea  table  spread. 

Palma  was  sitting  behind  the  urn  and  waiting  for  him. 
The  fire  was  very  bright,  the  parlor  very  snug,  and  the  little 
wife  very  happy.  If  this  could  only  continue ! 

"I  thought,  after  a  wedding  feast  at  two  o'clock,  that  tea 
would  be  better  than  dinner  at  six.  So  I  told  Poley.  Do 
you  mind,  Cleve?"  inquired  Palma. 

"No,  dear;  indeed,  I  prefer  tea;  it  will  be  more  refresh 
ing,"  he  replied,  trying  to  overcome  the  heaviness  of  his 
soul  so  that  it  should  not  appear  in  his  look  or  tone. 

"And  Poley  has  made  some  of  her  delicious,  light,  puffy 
muffins.  I  never  saw  any  so  nice  anywhere  as  she  can  make. 
I  tell  you,  Cleve,  dear,  if  our  riches  should  suddenly  'take 
unto  themselves  wings  and  fly  away,'  Poley  and  I  would 
open  a  bake  shop  with  a  specialty  of  these  tea  muffins. 
Poley  should  make  them.  I  would  stand  behind  the  counter 
and  sell  them  and  you  should  keep  the  accounts,  and  we 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  119 

should  all  three  make  our  fortunes  and  divide  the  profits/' 
said  Palma  as  she  poured  out  the  delicate  Japan  tea. 

Stuart  smiled  as  he  took  a  cup  from  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  There's  a  letter  for  you !  It 
came  while  you  were  out.  I  put  it  on  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece.  Will  you  look  at  it  now  ?" 

"No,  dear;  I  know  what  it  is.  It  is  only  the  bill  for  the 
month's  rent.  The  landlord  always  sends  it  on  the  third  of 
the  month,  and  as  the  third  comes  on  Sunday  this  time,  he 
has  sent  it  on  Saturday,  a  day  earlier." 

"Try  a  muffin,  Cleve.  You  don't  know  how  nice  they 
are." 

He  took  one  to  please  her. 

Then  she  chatted  on  about  the  wedding  they  had  just 
attended,  and  the  young  pair  who  had  just  sailed  for 
Europe. 

"They  are  so  anxious  that  we  shall  go  and  visit  them  at 
Haymore  as  soon  as  they  shall  be  settled  there,  Cleve.  And, 
indeed,  I  did  promise  to  use  all  my  influence  with  you  to 
persuade  you  to  take  me  over  next  summer.  Why,  Cleve,  it 
would  be  ever  so  much  pleasanter  than  to  go  to  Lull's  again, 
even !  And  yet  I  used  to  think  Lull's  was  just  Paradise ! 
What  do  you  think,  Cleve?" 

"I  think,  my  dear  one,  that  it  would  be  very  delightful 
to  spend  the  summer  with  our  friends  at  Haymore.  As 
much  as  I  have  traveled,  I  have  never  been  in  Yorkshire." 

"Then  you  think  we  may  go?"  eagerly  demanded  Palma. 

"Providence  permitting,  yes,  my  dear,"  he  replied. 

She  perceived  no  evasion  in  this  answer.  Indeed,  the 
phrase  was  her  own  habitual  formula  whenever  she  fully 
intended  to  do  any  certain  thing,  "Providence  permitting." 
She  took  his  words  for  consent  and  answered  gleefully : 

"That  will  be  something  to  look  forward  to  during  the 
winter." 

Stuart  smiled.  Ah !  how  hard  to  keep  up  that  cheerful 
countenance  and  light  tone  when  his  heart  was  so  heavy 
and  his  mind  so  dark. 

They  lingered  long  at  the  tea  table,  because  Palma  was 
full  of  life  and  of  the  enjoyment  of  all  life's  blessings,  in 
possession  and  in  anticipation. 

When  they  arose  at  last  and  the  table  was  cleared  of  the 
tea  service,  and  the  books  and  magazines  replaced  on  it, 


120  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Palma  took  her  workbasket  and  Cleve  a  book,  and  she 
sewed  at  mending  gloves,  he  read  aloud  "The  Annals  of  a 
Quiet  Neighborhood." 

The  letter  on  the  mantelpiece,  confidently  believed  to  be 
the  rent  bill,  was  not  looked  at,  or  even  thought  of.  There 
it  lay,  and  was  fated  to  lay,  until  Monday  morning. 

The  young  pair  retired  at  their  usual  hour;  but  only 
Palma  slept.  The  vulture  of  anxiety,  gnawing  at  his  heart, 
kept  Stuart  wide  awake. 

Sunday  dawned  clear,  bright  and  beautiful. 

The  young  couple  arose  and  breakfasted  and  went  to 
church. 

They  walked  all  the  way,  not  because  Cleve  had  not  a 
dime  to  pay  car  fare — though  he  had  not — but  because 
Palma  never  wished  to  tax  the  horses  on  the  Sabbath  day 
except  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity. 

"Because,"  she  urged,  "the  merciful  command  of  the 
Lord  provides  for  the  rest  of  the  beast  as  well  as  of  the  man, 
and  these  horses  work  hard  enough  all  the  week  to  rest  on 
Sunday." 

And  Stuart  had  always  yielded  to  her  scruples  in  this 
respect. 

The  organ  was  pealing  forth  a  fine  voluntary  when  they 
entered  the  church  and  took  their  seats.  The  music  ceased 
and  the  service  began.  Palma  entered  into  it  with  all  the 
loving  devotion  of  her  heart  and  soul.  Cleve  could  not  con 
centrate  his  thoughts  on  worship,  though  he  tried  to  do  so. 

After  a  little  while,  in  due  course,  the  first  hymn  was 
given  out,  and  the  first  line  fell  like  a  trumpet  blast,  calling 
the  Christian  soul  to  hope  and  courage : 

"Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears ! 
Hope  and  be  undismayed ! 
God  hears  thy  sighs  and  sees  thy  tears, 
God  shall  lift  up  thy  head." 

The  words  thrilled  him,  aroused  him  ;  all  the  black  shad 
ows  of  grief,  shame,  despair  and  desperation,  which  had 
bowed  and  cowed  his  spirit  with  the  sense  of  helplessness 
and  humiliation,  rolled  away  as  before  a  rising  sun.  It 
seemed  wonderful,  miraculous,  a  memory  of  divine  inter 
vention  that  never  left  him  in  all  his  after  life.  He  had 


FOB  WHOSE  SAKE? 

always  worshiped  God  as  the  supreme  ruler  of  the  universe; 
but  never  had  known  Him  as  the  Heavenly  Father.  But 
from  this  hour  he  knew,  or  rather  he  felt,  that  "the  God  of 
the  universe,  the  God  of  the  race,  was  the  God  of  the  indi 
vidual  man,"  the  giver  of  life,  the  giver  of  heaven,  the  giver 
of  the  daily  bread  as  well. 

The  sermon  which  followed  was  from  the  text:  "Are  not 
two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing  ?  And  one  of  them  shall 
not  fall  on  the  ground  without  your  Father.  .  .  .  Fear 
not,  therefore,  ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows." 

The  sermon  that  followed  was  almost  worthy  of  the 
text,  not  quite,  for  no  man's  nor  angel's  words  can  add  to 
the  Word  of  the  Lord;  but  it  was  faithfully,  lovingly  and 
practically  applied,  and  it  did  good  service. 

At  the  end  of  the  worship  Stuart,  as  well  as  Palma,  came 
out  into  the  sunlight  refreshed  and  comforted. 

That  morning  Stuart,  in  his  dark  mood,  had  shrunk  from 
the  exertion  of  going  to  church.  What  would  be  the  use  ? 
he  had  thought  in  his  secret  heart;  and  he  had  tried  to 
excuse  himself  to  Palma,  but  she,  from  a  feeling  of  duty, 
had  persuaded  him  to  go. 

Now  as  they  walked  uptown  through  the  sunny  air  he 
said: 

"I  am  very  glad  we  went  to  church  to-day,  dear." 

"  So  am  I.  We  got  our  daily  bread,  our  heavenly  manna 
there,  did  we  not  ?" 

"Yes." 

They  reached  home  and  found  their  pleasant  little  parlor 
aglow  with  the  bright  fire  in  the  grate,  and  inviting  with 
the  neatly  spread  table  and  the  simple  midday  meal  of  the 
Sabbath. 

Mrs.  Pole  had  also  been  to  church  at  a  much  nearer  point, 
and  had  got  home  before  them  in  good  time  to  lay  the  cloth. 

Dinner  over,  they  spent  the  afternoon  in  reading. 

They  had  an  early  tea,  and  then  went  out  to  church  for 
the  evening  service,  walking  there  and  back  again.  They 
reached  home  after  ten  o'clock,  for  the  way  was  long.  They 
were  revived  in  spirit  and  wholesomely  fatigued  in  body,  so 
that  they  soon  retired  to  rest  and  slept  well.  Even  Stuart 
slept,  though  he  believed  that  this  night  ended  their  last 
day  in  their  pretty  home,  and  that  the  next  morning  would 
send  them  adrift,  bereft  of  all  their  effects,  except  the 


122  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

clothes  they  wore,  and  Heaven  only  knew  whither !  But — 
they  would  be  in  their  Father's  world !  Xo  one  could  turn 
them  out  of  that.  So  they  slept  in  peace. 

I  have  been  particular  in  describing  these  last  two  days 
of  Stuart's  and  Palma's  experience,  for  they  were  ever  after 
memorable  in  their  lives. 

On  Monday  morning  they  arose  early,  as  usual.  It  had 
been  Stuart's  daily  custom  to  go  out  after  breakfast  in 
search  of  employment.  He  had  continued  this  under  all 
discouragements. 

Yet  this  morning  he  stayed  at  home  to  see  the  landlord's 
collector,  who  always  arrived  the  day  after  the  bill  had  come 
by  mail.  As  the  bill  had  arrived  on  Saturday,  and  the  col 
lector  could  not  come  on  Sunday,  he  would  certainly  put  in 
an  appearance  on  Monday,  and  Palma  must  not  be  left 
alone  to  receive  him — under  the  circumstances. 

Palma  took  her  knitting — a  pair  of  mittens  for  Mrs.  Pole 
— and  sat  down  to  work  near  the  window,  from  which  she 
could  look  below  upon  the  housetops  and  above  to  the  glori 
ous  December  sky. 

Stuart  took  a  book  and  threw  himself  into  a  rocking- 
chair  by  the  table,  but  he  did  not  read.  He  was  waiting — 
for  what  ?  He  did  not  know. 

The  door  opened  and  "the  boy"  came  in,  silently  laid  a 
letter  on  the  table,  and  went  out  again. 

Stuart  took  it  up  and  opened  it.  Palma  looked  up  from 
her  work. 

"Why — this  is  the  rent  bill.  I  thought  it  came  Saturday. 
"Where  is  that  letter  that  came?"  Stuart  inquired. 

"On  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece.  I'll  get  it  for  you," 
said  Palma ;  and  she  arose  and  handed  him  the  letter. 

He  took  it  and  gazed  at  it. 

"I  don?t  know  the  handwriting  at  all,"  he  said  medita 
tively,  "and  it  is  postmarked  'Wolfswalk,  West  Virginia.' 
I  should  think  it  was  intended  for  some  one  else,  if  my 
name  was  not  such  an  uncommon  one,  and  certainly  there  is 
no  one  else  in  this  house  that  bears  it."  And  he  turned  it 
over  and  over  and  scrutinized  it  after  the  strange  manner  of 
people  who  receive  a  mysterious  letter  and  play  with  their 
own  curiosity  by  delaying  to  open  it.  At  length  he  broke 
the  envelope  and  unfolded  the  letter. 

First  of  all  he  turned  to  the  signature,  which  was  at  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  123 

bottom  of  the  fourth  page,  so  that  he  did  not  happen  to 
open  the  sheet  and  find  what  lay  between  the  leaves. 

"  'John  Clever  »  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  dear  Palma,  this 
is  from  my  old  bachelor  great-uncle,  who,  I  thought,  had 
been  gathered  to  his  fathere  ages  ago.  He  must  be  at  least 
eighty  years  old." 

"Oh,  Cleve.  read  it  to  me!  I  never  knew  you  had  an 
uncle,"  said  Palma,  dropping  her  work  and  coming  and 
leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair  so  that  she  could  look  at 
the  open  letter. 

Cleve  read  as  follows : 

'•WOLFSWALK.  WEST  VIRGINIA, 

"November  25,  186—. 

"Mr  DEAR  GEAXD-XEPHEW  :  You  will  be  surprised  to 
get  a  letter  from  me,  of  whom  you  can  have  but  little 
memory,  as  you  have  not  seen. me  since  you  were  a  babe  of 
three  years  old,  when  your  dear  mother — my  dear  and  only 
niece — brought  you  to  my  house. 

"Since  her  lamented  death,  in  Mississippi,  I  had  com 
pletely  lost  sight  of  you,  thinking  of  you  as  in  the  hands  of 
competent  guardians  during  your  minority,  and  of  leading 
a  prosperous  life  as  an  active  planter  on  your  estate  since 
your  majority.  I  thought  of  writing  to  you,  but  neglected 
to  do  so.  How  families  do  get  separated  in  this  world,  to 
be  sure,  neglecting  each  other,  forgetting  each  other,  like 
aliens ! 

"Several  circumstances  have  occurred  to  bring  you 
forcibly  to  my  mind  of  late.  First,  the  fact  that  my  two 
grand-nephews,  Frank  and  James,  sole  descendants  of  my 
only  nephew,  Charles,  fell  on  the  field  of  Cold  Harbor, 
fighting  for  their  native  State.  They  died  unmarried. 
This  leaves  you  my  sole  heir. 

"As  soon  as  I  learned  this  fact  I  wrote  to  you  in  Missis 
sippi,  but  failed  to  get  a  letter  from  you.  I  wrote  to  the 
postmaster  of  your  post  office  there,  and  learned  from  him 
that  you  had  been  an  absentee  from  home  for  many  years. 

"Then  I  thought  of  advertising  for  you,  but  so  hated  the 
plan  that  I  delayed  putting  it  in  execution. 

"At  length  chance  favored  me  and  gave  the  information  I 
desired.  A  neighbor  of  mine  went  off  on  a  business  trip  and 
was  in  Washington  City  last  week,  and  met  there  a  friend 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

of  yours — a  Mr.  Walling,  of  New  York.  By  the  merest 
accident  your  name  came  up — neither  of  the  gentlemen 
knowing  of  how  much  importance  it  was  to  me — and  Fair 
fax  heard  that  you  were  in  New  York  City,  and,  in  fact, 
much  about  you  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  here,  but 
all  of  which  he  told  me.  Therefore,  I  write  you  this  letter. 

"And  now,  since  you  are  not  bound  down  to  your  Missis 
sippi  plantation,  and  since  you  are  my  sole  heir,  and  I  am 
old  and  feeble,  and  cannot  last  long,  I  ask  you  to  be  a 
good  boy,  and  a  dutiful  nephew,  and  to  come  and  bring  your  , 
wife  and  live  with  me  on  the  farm. 

"I  have  not  surfered,  as  so  many  have,  by  the  war.  It 
did  not  sweep  over  my  land,  but  gave  it  a  rather  wide  berth. 

"My  negroes  have  remained  with  me  at  fair  wages,  but 
whether  they  do  fair  work  is  something  else. 

"I  have  an  overseer  to  look  after  the  negroes,  but,  my  boty, 
I  require  some  one  to  look  after  the  overseer.  Will  you 
come? 

"As  breaking  up  and  traveling  is  always  expensive,  and 
as  I  do  not  know  your  financial  condition,  I  inclose  a  check 
for  five  hundred  dollars,  merely  as  an  advance  to  my  heir. 
Give  my  love  to  your  wife.  Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  believe  me,  my  dear  Cleve,  now  and  ever, 
your  affectionate  grand-uncle, 

"JOHN  CLEVE." 

"Thank  God!"  fervently  ejaculated  Stuart. 

"But  where  is  the  check?"  curiously  inquired  Palma. 

Stuart  opened  the  leaves  of  the  letter  again,  then  his  face 
fell  and  he  murmured: 

"My  uncle  must  have  forgotten  to  put  it  in !" 

"No,"  said  Palma,  "here  it  is!"  And  she  picked  it  up 
from  the  carpet,  to  which  it  had  slipped. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Stuart  again. 

"Why,  I  am  glad,  very  glad,  that  you  have  heard  from 
your  uncle.  But  you,  Cleve!  I  have  never  in  all  my  life 
seen  you  so  strongly  moved.  What  is  it  all  about?"  ex 
claimed  Palma,  amazed  at  his  extreme  agitation. 

"My  darling,  when  this  providential  letter  came  we  were 
on  the  brink  of  ruin !"  he  answered,  telling  her  the  truth 
at  last. 

"'Ruin!'     You!     Cleve  Stuart!" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  125 

"Yes,  my  beloved." 

"But  your  vast  wealth?" 

"A  fond  imagination  of  yours." 

"And  your  rich  Mississippi  plantation?" 

"A  blasted  wilderness." 

"Oh,  Cleve!     Cleve !     How  have  we  lived?" 

"By  the  gradual  disposal  of  all  my  useless  effects." 

"Oh,  Cleve!     Cleve!" 

"The  last  dime  was  spent  on  Saturday,  dear,  and  this 
morning  I  looked  for  nothing  else  but  a  distrain  for  rent 
and  ejection  from  these  premises." 

"And  you  never  told  me  !    You  never  told  me  !" 

"Why  should  I  have  distressed  you,  dear  one?" 

"Oh,  I  could  have  worked,  Cleve.  But  I  didn't  know! 
I  didn't  know !  I  thought  you  were  rich.  And  I  thought, 
sometimes,  that  you  were  too  prudent,  too  saving,  especially 
when  you  did  not  get  a  dress  coat  to  go  to  Ean's  wedding. 
And  all  the  time  you  were  poor,  and  struggling  on  the  very 
brink  of  ruin  !  Oh,  Cleve  !" 

"Never  mind,  dear  heart,  we  are  ready  for  the  landlord, 
or  for  any  other  demand.  Tell  me,  darling,  shall  you  like 
to  go  to  this  mountain  farmhouse  in  West  Virginia,  and 
keep  house  for  the  old  man,  and  be  mistress,  doctress, 
teacher  and  everything,  to  his  horde  of  darkies  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes — a  thousand  times,  yes!  I  shall 
be  delighted,  Cleve!"  ' 

"Very  well,  then.  As  it  all  depended  upon  you,  I  will 
answer  the  old  man's  letter  and  accept  his  offer ;  then  go  out 
and  change  this  check." 

"No,  no;  first  of  all,  dear  Cleve,"  said  Palma,  gravely, 
"let  us  kneel  and  return  thanks  to  our  Heavenly  Father 
that  we  are  saved." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SAFE   AT   HOME 

WE  left  Jennie  Montgomery  sleeping  in  her  mather's 
arms,  with  her  babe  safe  beside  them. 

Jennie  would  have  talked  all  night  till  broad  daylight; 


126  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

but  her  mother,  knowing  how  tired  the  young  traveler  must 
be,  discouraged  all  conversation  by  pretending  to  be  sleepy, 
by  replying  only  in  monosyllables,  or  even  answering  at 
random,  until  at  length  the  talker  herself  gave  up  in  de 
spair,  grew  tired,  then  stupid,  and  then  fell  fast  asleep. 

The  consequence  of  her  exhausted  strength  and  her  long 
vigil  was  that  she  slept  long  and  deeply  and  late  into  the 
next  morning. 

When  at  last  she  awoke  she  found  herself  alone  in  the 
room,  with  the  morning  sunlight  stealing  through  the  slats 
of  the  window  shutters,  and  gilding  bright  lines  on  the- 
white  window  curtains  and  on  the  light  gray  ground  of  the 
carpet  and  the  light  gray  color  of  the  walls.  She  saw  all 
this  through  the  festooned  whtie  curtains  at  the  foot  of  her 
bed.  She  raised  herself  up,  and  then  she  saw  something 
through  the  same  opening — a  bright  little  coal  fire  burning 
in  the  grate. 

Her  mother  was  gone  and  her  baby  was  gone.  Evidently 
Jennie  had  slept  so  soundly  that  she  had  not  heard  their 
uprising  and  departure,  and  she  had  continued  to  sleep  on 
until  she  knew  not  what  hour  of  the  day. 

She  thought  she  would  get  up  and  dress  herself  quietly 
before  any  one  should  discover  that  she  was  awake. 

She  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  the  first  thing  that  she  saw 
was  her  large  sea  trunk,  that  had  been  packed  with  un 
discovered  treasure  of  clothing  by  the  benevolent  women 
who  had  taken  such  a  warm  interest  in  her  welfare,  and  who 
had  given  her  an  outfit  as  well  as  a  first-class  passage  home. 

The  key  of  her  trunk  was  in  her  portemonnaie,  in  the 
pocket  of  her  traveling  dress.  She  got  it  out,  unstrapped 
and  unlocked  the  treasure  chest,  and  lifted  the  lid. 

But  just  then  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  baby  crowing 
loudly  in  response  to  another  cooing  voice  that  she  recog 
nized  as  her  mother's. 

They  were  having  a  grand  circus  together  in  the  parlor, 
that  young  grandmother  and  the  baby. 

Jennie  snatched  up  the  first  garment  fitting  to  wear  from 
the  top  of  the  trunk,  and  then  dropped  the  lid  and  hastily 
washed  and  dressed  herself,  putting  on  a  pretty  blue  cash 
mere  princess  wrapper,  trimmed  with  blue  satin  ribbons. 
Then,  while  still  buttoning  up,  she  hastily  opened  the  divid 
ing  door  and  entered  the  parlor. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  127 

Her  mother  was  there,  sitting  in  a  low  rocker,  holding 
the  baby  across  her  lap.  Beside  her,  on  the  hob  of  the  grate, 
stood  the  bowl  of  "infant  food"  from  which  she  had  been 
feeding  the  child. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  nor  did  there  need  to 
be  to  make  it  very  lively  there,  for  the  baby  was  crowing 
with  all  the  strength  of  her  lungs,  while  laughing  up  in  the 
pretty,  smiling  face,  with  the  cooing  voice,  bending  over 
her. 

"Oh,  mamma,  darling!  why  didn't  you  wake  me?"  ex 
claimed  Jennie,  coming  up  before  Mrs.  Campbell  perceived 
her  presence  in  the  room. 

"Why,  Jennie!  Up  and  dressed,  my  pet?  Why  didn't 
you  ring  for  some  one  to  help  you?"  inquired  the  mother 
in  her  turn. 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question  yet,  and  told  me  why 
you  did  not  wake  me  when  you  got  up  and  dressed  baby," 
said  Jennie  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  her  mother  and  the 
child. 

"I  was  so  well  satisfied  to  see  you  sleeping  off  your  fatigue 
that  I  would  not  have  disturbed  you  for  a  great  deal,"  said 
Mrs.  Campbell,  returning  her  daughter's  caress. 

"Well,  now,  the  reason  I  didn't  ring  for  any  one  was  be 
cause  I  didn't  want  any  one.  And  when  I  heard  you  and 
baby  in  such  earnest  conversation,  I  hurried  with  my  dress 
ing  and  came  in.  I  thought  baby  would  be  hunrgy." 

"  She  was  hungry ;  but  I  sent  to  the  chemist  and  got  this 
'infant  food'  for  her." 

"Oh!  she  never  was  fed  with  that  before!"  exclaimed 
Jennie,  in  some  doubt  of  its  good  effects. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear.  It  is  used  in  all  the  royal 
nurseries.  See,  the  royal  arms  are  on  the  label,"  said  the 
lady. 

"  Of  course,  mamma,  darling,  if  you  give  it,  it  is  all  right. 
I  think  your  judgment  quite  as' good  as  that  of  all  the  royal 
family  put  together." 

"Tut!  tut!  my  pet!  Your  visit  to  America  must  have 
turned  you  into  a  republican.  But  what  a  lovely  wrapper 
you  have  got  on,  Jennie !"  she  said,  perhaps  to  turn  the 
conversation. 

"Is  it  not?  And  I  have  got  another  one  just  like  it  in 
mauve,  which  has  never  been  on  my  back,  and  which  you 


128  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

must  have,  dear  mamma.  Those  angel  women  in  New  York 
have  given  me  that  huge  trunk  full  of  beautiful  clothing, 
and  I  shall  never  wear  one-half  of  it  out,  but  my  greatest 
pleasure  in  it  will  be  to  divide  it  with  you,  my  dear,  darling, 
beautiful  mamma." 

"Oh,  Jennie!"  was  all  the  curate's  wife  found  to  say  to 
that,  for  she  did  not  mean  to  take  any  of  her  daughter's 
pretty  clothes,  if  she  could  help  it,  nor  did  she  want  to  vex 
the  girl  by  refusing  them  just  then. 

"Where  is  papa?"  inquired  Jennie. 

"Gone  out  to  make  some  sick  calls;  he  will  be  home  by 
noon.  But  here  I  am  chatting  away  and  forgetting  that  you 
have  had  no  breakfast.  We  breakfasted  two  hours  ago!" 
laughed  Mrs.  Campbell  as  she  put  her  hand  out  to  the  bell 
rope  and  rang. 

Elspeth  Longman  came  in,  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Good-morning,  ma'am,"  to  Jennie,  and  then  went  to 
work  to  lay  the  cloth  for  her  breakfast.  It  was  soon  spread 
upon  the  table — good  coffee,  rich  cream,  muffins,  fresh 
butter,  grilled  ham  and  poached  eggs. 

Mrs.  Campbell  gave  the  baby  to  Elspeth  and  sat  down  to 
pour  out  the  coffee  for  her  prodigal  daughter. 

"Ah,  mamma  !  You  remember  our  old  feeling,  yours  and 
mine,  that  a  draught  poured  out  by  beloved  hands  has  the 
power  of  life-giving  to  the  spirit  as  well  as  to  the  body," 
said  Jennie  as  she  received  the  cup  from  her  mother. 

"And  the  same  may  be  said  of  work  gifts,  my  dear. 
Your  little  Shetland  veil  that  you  knit  for  me  years  ago, 
always  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  of  your  dear  love,  and 
its  touch  on  my  face  like  your  caress,"  replied  Mrs.  Camp 
bell. 

While  they  sat  at  table  Elspeth  Longman  stood  at  one  of 
the  windows  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  tapping  on  the 
panes  to  make  the  child  look  out  on  the  blue  sky  and  the 
evergreen  trees. 

"I  shall  stop  calling  baby  'Baby'  now,  mamma.  She  is 
going  to  be  named  after  you — Esther.  It  is  too  grown  up 
a  name  to  call  a  little  baby  in  common.  And  we  can't  call 
her  Hetty,  because  that  is  your  pet  name.  Now  what  shall 
we  call  her  for  short?" 

"Essy,"  replied  the  young  grandmother. 

"Essy,  then,  it  shall  be.     Mind,  Mrs.  Longman.    Our 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  129 

baby  is  to  tbe  christened  Esther,  after  mamma,  and  we  are 
to  call  her  Essy  for  short." 

"Very  well,  ma'am;  it  is  a  pretty  name,"  said  the  woman 
at  the  window. 

"And  we  will  have  her  christened  on  Sunday,  mamma. 
We  must  wait  for  Sunday,  because  I  remember  papa's  pref 
erence  for  christening  babies  on  Sunday,  unless  there  should 
be  some  pressing  necessity  to  perform  the  ceremony  on  a 
week  day." 

"There's  grandpa!"  exclaimed  Elspeth  to  the  baby,  tap 
ping  on  the  window.  And  the  next  instant,  the  Rev.  James 
Campbell — otherwise  familiarly  and  affectionately  in  his 
own  family  called  "Jimmy" — entered  the  house  and  walked 
into  the  room. 

He  kissed  his  daughter  good-morning,  and  then  took  his 
stand  on  the  rug,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  looking  so  grave 
that  his  wife  grew  anxious,  but  forbore  to  question  him  in 
the  presence  of  their  newly  returned  daughter. 

"And  perhaps,  after  all,"  she  reflected,  "it  is  nothing 
very  personal.  He  may  have  just  returned  from  the  death 
bed  of  a  parishioner.  Such  scenes  always  affect  him,  more 
for  the  sake  of  those  left  behind  than  for  the  departed,  for 
he  has  too  much  faith  to  fret  after  the  freed  soul." 

While  Mrs.  Campbell  was  turning  these  thoughts  over  in 
her  mind,  and  Mr.  Campbell  was  standing  in  silence  on  the 
rug,  Jennie  finished  her  breakfast  and  arose  and  took  her 
crowing  baby  from  the  arms  of  Elspeth,  that  the  latter 
might  clear  off  the  table. 

When  this  was  done,  and  the  woman  had  left  the  room, 
and  Jennie  had  put  her  baby  to  sleep  in  the  pretty  berceau- 
nette  that  had  been  provided  by  her  mother  that  very 
morning,  and  the  father,  mother  and  daughter  were  seated 
around  the  fire,  both  these  women  with  needlework  in  their 
hands,  the  curate  said: 

"Now,  my  dear,  if  you  will,  you  may  give  us  the  explana 
tion  you  promised.  Hetty !"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  to 
his  wife,  "did  she  tell  you  anything  last  night?" 

"Not  a  word.  I  would  not  let  her  talk.  I  made  her  go 
to  sleep." 

"That  was  right.  Well,  we  know  from  her  letter  that 
she,  daughter  of  a  minister  of  the  church  of  England, 
though  a  very  humble  one,  and  the  wife  of  an  ex-officer  in 


ISO  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

her  majesty's  service,  though  a  most  unworthy  one — that 
she,  a  lady  by  birth  and  by  marriage,  was  brought  to  such 
extremity  as  to  be  confined  in  the  pauper  ward  of  a  public 
hospital,  and  to  depend  on  private  charity  for  her  outfit  and 
passage  home  to  us." 

"Thanks  be  to  the  Lord  that  we  have  her  and  her  child 
safe  and  sound  in  mind  and  body,  however  they  came  to 
us !"  fervently  exclaimed  Hetty  Campbell. 

"I  say  we  know  all  this  from  our  child's  letter.  But  we 
do  not  know  why  all  this  should  have  happened  in  this  way ; 
nor  why  she  never  mentioned  her  husband's  name  in  hJer 
letter;  nor  why  she  comes  to  us  with  her  child  alone;  nor 
why,,  when  I  asked  her  for  an  explanation,  she  replied  to 
me  that  the  kindest  act  he  ever  did  for  her  was — to  leave 
her." 

"Oh,  my  Jennie!  Oh,  my  dear  Jennie!"  exclaimed 
Hetty  in  a  tone  of  pain. 

"Yes.  mamma;  it  is  true.  The  kindest  tiling  he  ever  did 
for  me  was  to  leave  me.  I  am  not  heartbroken  over  it.  I 
have  nothing,  not  the  least  thing,  to  reproach  myself  with 
in  all  my  conduct  toward  him.  Mamma,  when  I  made 
Capt.  Kightly  Montgomery's  acquaintance  I 

"  'Foregathered  wi'  the  de'il.'  " 

"Oh,  Jennie — my  daughter!" 

"This  is  hard  fact,  mamma,  as  you  will  know  when  you 
have  heard  the  story  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  Is  there  any 
danger  of  any  one  coming  in?" 

"No,  dear.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house  besides  our 
selves  except  Elspeth,  and  as  this  is  baking  day  she  is  very 
busy  in  the  kitchen,  and  will  not  come  in  here  unless  she 
should  be  called,"  said  Hetty.  Nevertheless,  she  got  up  and 
turned  the  keys  in  both  doors. 

"Now,  then,  my  dear,"  she  said  as  she  resumed  her  seat. 

"It  is  a  long  story,  and  a  painful  one;  yet,  for  every  rea 
son,  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you  the  whole  of  it  without 
reservation,  because  I  shall  have  to  seek  your  counsel  and 
be  guided  by  it  as  to  my  future  course,"  said  Jennie,  turn 
ing  to  her  father. 

"Yes ;  tell  every  word  you  know,"  replied  Jimmy. 

Then  Jennie  told  the  whole  horrible  story — of  her  secret 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  131 

marriage — of  which  her  parents  had  heard  before — of  the 
many  devices  by  which  her  husband  had  kept  her  away 
from  her  parents,  even  after  they  had  received  her  penitent 
letter,  and  forgiven  her,  and  invited  her  and  her  bridegroom 
to  visit  them ;  of  their  wanderings  through  Europe,  stopping 
at  the  great  gambling  centers ;  of  his  abandonment  of  her ; 
or  her  pursuit  of  him  over  land  and  sea ;  of  their  meeting  at 
night  in  the  streets  of  New  York,  just  when  he  was  on  the 
eve  of  marriage  with  another  woman ;  of  his  fright  at  her 
appearance,  his  instant  repudiation  of  her,  and  their  bitter 
altercation,  which  ended  in  his  stabbing  her  and  leaving  her 
for  dead  on  the  sidewalk  of  the  deserted  street, 

"In  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night." 

At  this  point  of  the  story  Mrs.  Campbell  screamed  and 
flung  her  hands  up  to  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horrible 
vision  her  imagination  had  conjured  up  from  the  words  of 
Jennie. 

Then  there  followed  a  pause  in  the  narrative  until  Hetty 
had  recovered  herself.  Meanwhile  the  curate  sat  in  grim 
silence,  like  a  man  who  resolves  but  does  not  mean  to  speak. 

It  was  Jennie  who  broke  the  spell. 

"That  is  the  very  worst,  mamma.  I  have  nothing  to  tell 
worse  than  this — no,  nor  half  as  bad — and  you  see  that  it 
did  not  kill  me.  And  now  what  I  have  to  tell  you  is  mostly 
a  pleasant  experience;  for  when  I  recovered  consciousness, 
which  was  after  many  hours,  I  found  myself  on  a  nice,  white 
bed  in  a  pleasant  room,  with  the  sweetest,  kindest  woman's 
face,  like  an  angePs  face,  bending  over  me,  and  my  new 
born  baby  lying  beside  me.  Yes ;  my  wound  had  been  in  the 
flesh  of  my  left  breast,  shocking  me  into  a  swoon,  but  not 
fatal — as  he  had  supposed  it  to  be — and  not  even  dangerous. 
Under  some  ana?sthetic — I  suppose,  though  I  do  not  know 
— my  wound  had  been  dressed,  and  my  baby  born,  and  I 
awoke  in  such  a  heaven  of  peace  and  good-will,  with  my 
precious  baby  by  my  side,  and  with  angels  of  mercy  all 
about  me,  that,  mamma,  every  vestige  of  anger  against  my 
husband  for  all  his  wrongs  to  me  vanished  from  my  bosonT; 
although  there  remained  a  shrinking  from  the  thought  of 
ever  meeting  him  again,  and  a  horror  of  him  that  I  feel  can 
never  be  overcome  in  this  life.  As  soon  as  I  was  well  enough 


132  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

to  bear  the  ordeal  I  was  questioned  as  to  my  assailant;  but 
I  would  not  tell  who  he  was.  The  police  searched  my  room 
on  Vevay  Street,  and  found  his  miniature ;  but  it  happened 
to  be  the  one  which  had  been  taken  when  he  was  in  the 
army,  in  his  regimental  uniform,  and  with  his  military 
mustache,  and  it  bore  his  monogram,  K.  M.  They  brought 
it  to  me,  but  I  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  it;  nor  was  it 
available  to  trace  Montgomery,  for  he  now  wore  a  citizen's 
dress,  had  grown  a  full,  long  beard,  and  he  bore  another 
name — a  name  supported  by  documentary  and  direct  evi 
dence — a  name  which  it  will  surprise  you  to  hear — but  let 
that  pass  for  the  present." 

"Why  not  tell  us  now?" 

"Wait,  mamma,  dear.  I  am  following  the  narrative  as 
the  facts  came  to  my  knowledge.  The  miniature  was  photo 
graphed  and  distributed  to  aid  in  the  identification  and 
arrest  of  the  suspected  party.  It  did  not  lead  to  Mont 
gomery's  arrest,  but  to  that  of  an  unlucky  gentleman  who 
bore  some  resemblance  to  the  photograph,  especially  in  the 
matter  of  the  martial  mustache.  This  hapless  person  was 
brought  before  me  for  identification.  The  likeness  struck 
even  me  at  first,  and  startled  me  into  a  compromising  ex 
clamation  ;  but  a  second  glance  assured  me  that  I  had  never 
seen  the  man  before  in  my  life ;  and  I  told  them  so.  They 
did  not  believe  me.  And  afterward  it  took  the  evidence  of 
several  substantial  citizens  to  convince  the  magistrate  before 
whom  he  was  brought  that  the  accused  man  was  quite  a  dis 
tinct  individual  from  Capt.  Kightly  Montgomery,  my  sup 
posed  assailant.  I  say  my  supposed  assailant,  dear  mamma ; 
for  they  could  not  know  him  for  such,  since  I  would  not 
give  him  up  to  justice;  for  I  wish  him  no  harm,  though  I 
never  want  to  see  him  in  this  world." 

"Never!"  breathed  Hetty  with  all  a  mother's  intense 
sympathy. 

"I  told  you  in  my  letter  of  the  great  goodness  of  those 
angel  women  in  New  York  to  me,  and  how,  as  soon  as  I 
was  able  to  leave  the  hospital,  one  of  them,  dear  Mrs.  Dun 
can,  took  me  home  to  her  own  house,  where  she  cared  for 
me  and  my  baby  as — as  you  do,  sweet  mamma." 

"God  bless  them !"  exclaimed  Hetty. 

"I  stayed  with  her  while  the  ladies  were  preparing  my 
outfit,  and  until  I  took  passage  on  the  Scorpio." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  133 

"And  you  saw  no  more  of  that " 

The  conscientious  minister  hesitated  at  a  word  that  any 
other  man,  under  the  circumstances,  would  have  pro 
nounced  with  vim. 

Jennie  understood  him,  and  answered  promptly. 

"No,  dear  papa.  I  saw  no  more  of  him  until  I  was  eight 
days  out  at  sea.  Then  we  came  face  to  face  on  deck." 

"  'Face  to  face  on  deck !'  "  exclaimed  Hetty  in  dismay. 

"  'Face  to  face  on  deck  I'  Then  he  was  actually  coming 
over  on  the  same  ship  with  yourself  ?"  said  the  curate,  losing 
much  of  his  self-control. 

"Yes,  papa.  Yes,  mamma.  He  was  coming  over  on  the 
same  ship  with  myself.  Coming  over  under  his  new  name, 
with  his  new,  deceived  bride.  They  had  been  married  with 
the  greatest  eclat  in  one  of  the  most  wealthy  and  fashionable 
houses  in  New  York.  And  they  were  on  their  wedding 
tour." 

Then  Jennie  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  meeting  be 
tween  the  recreant  husband  and  the  wronged  wife  on  board 
the  Scorpio.  She  described  his  fright,  awe,  horror  on  meet 
ing  one  whom  he  believed  to  be  in  a  pauper's  grave  in  pot 
ter's  field,  with  the  stigma  of  suicide  on  her  name,  and  then 
his  slow  acceptance  of  the  fact  that  it  was  herself  in  the 
bod}r,  and  not  an  optical  illusion  created  by  delirium  tre- 
mens,  that  was  there  before  him. 

"I  had  not  dreamed  of  meeting  him  there,  or  anywhere 
else  on  earth,"  said  Jennie;  "but  when  I  saw  him  before 
me,  so  unexpectedly,  I  was  calmer  than  he  was.  I  bade  him 
leave  me  and  avoid  me,  and  told  him  that  I  should  not 
trouble  him  while  we  were,  unfortunately,  on  the  ship  to 
gether,  but  that  I  should  tell  you  my  whole  story  and  take 
your  advice  as  to  my  future  course." 

"You  did  wisely  so  far,"  said  the  curate. 

"Then  I  told  him  you  were  to  meet  me  at  Liverpool." 

"Well?" 

"He  had  taken  tickets  for  Liverpool,  but  he  got  off,  with 
his  party,  at  Queenstown." 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  curate,  "that  was  prudently  done. 
But  now,  my  child,  tell  me  the  alias  under  which  this  man 
is  now  traveling,  and  which  you  said  would  surprise  us  very 
much  ?" 

"Dear  papa,  first  of  all,  will  you  please  to  tell  me  how 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

much  you  learned  of  Kightly  Montgomery's  true  history 
when  you  undertook  to  investigate  the  antecedents  of  the 
young  officer  who  had  run  off  with  your  daughter?" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  There  was  no  mystery  about  him.  I 
went  to  the  colonel  of  his  regiment,  and  learned  that  he 
was  the  son  of  the  late  General  the  Honorable  Arthur  Mont 
gomery,  who  was  so  distinguished  in  the  Indian  war,  the 
grandson  of  the  late  and  the  nephew  of  the  present  Earl  of 
Engelmeed,  and  a  disgrace  to  his  ancestry  and  relatives; 

and  that  he  had  held  a  commission  in  the Regiment  of 

Foot,  but  had  been  court-martialed  and  dismissed  the  serv 
ice  for  'conduct  unworthy  of  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.7  ' 

"And  you  are  sure  that  he  is  really  Kightly  Montgomery 
— that  that  is  his  real  name?" 

"As  sure  as  that  James  Campbell  is  my  own,"  said  the 
curate.  "And  now,  will  you  tell  me  what  name  he  passed 
under  in  America,  and  why  he  dropped  his  own  ?" 

"Yes,  papa;  the  name  under  which  he  passed  in  New 
York ;  the  name  under  which  he  claims  the  richest  estate  in 
Yorkshire;  the  name  under  which  he  married  Miss  Lamia 
Leegh,  of  New  York;  the  name  under  which  he  sailed  in 
the  Scorpio  for  Liverpool,  is " 

"Yes?    Well?" 

"Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  of  Haymore!" 

"Great  Heaven,  Jennie!" 

"Good  Lord,  Jennie!" 

These  exclamations  burst  simultaneously  from  the  lips  of 
Jimmy  and  Hetty. 

"Yes,  mamma!  Yes,  papa!  It  is  true  as  truth.  Your 
landlord  and  patron,  the  new  Squire  of  Haymore,  for  whose 
home-coming  with  his  bride  all  these  gorgeous  preparations 
have  been  made,  is  no  other  than  my  husband,  your  son-in- 
law,  ex-captain  of  Foot,  Kightly  Montgomery,  who  meta 
phorically  fled  from  before  your  face  by  landing  at  Queens- 
town,  to  avoid  meeting  you  at  Liverpool." 

"Oh,  Hetty!  Hetty!"  said  the  curate,  appealing  to  his 
wife,  "what  is  this  world  coming  to?" 

"To  judgment  one  of  these  days,  Jimmy,  according  to 
your  own  preaching !  'Reck  your  own  read/  Jimmy.  And 
take  comfort,  as  I  do,  that  whatever  has  been,  or  is,  or  is  to 
be,  we  have  our  darling  daughter  and  her  babe  safe  at 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  135 

home !"  said  Hetty,  closing  her  arm  around  Jennie's  waist 
and  squeezing  her  fondly. 

"And  what  a  complication!  The  scoundrel — Heaven 
forgive  me,  the  word  slipped  out ! — the  man  slunk  off  the 
steamer  at  Queenstown  for  fear  of  meeting  me  at  Liverpool, 
and  now  he  is  walking  unaware  into  my  very  arms !" 

"And  I  don't  believe  that  your  arms  will  fold  him  in  a 
very  fond  embrace !"  exclaimed  Hetty. 

"If  they  had  but  the  strength  I  fear  it  would  be  in  the 
grizzly  bear's  hug,  or  the  boa  constrictor's  crush!"  ex 
claimed  the  curate,  gasping. 

"But  the  mad  audacity  of  his  coming  here,  where  you 
are !  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Hetty. 

"My  dear,  he  does  not  dream  that  I  am  here!  How 
should  he  ?  He  thinks  that  we  are  all  at  Medge,  on  the 
south  coast,  with  the  length  of  England  between  us  and 
Haymore!" 

"'So!    I  forgot  that !    What  shall  you  do,  Jimmy?" 

"Nothing  at  present;  but  wait  for  his  coming;  then  I 
will  confront  him  and  expose  him  to  the  lady  he  has  de 
ceived  and  feloniously  married.  Meanwhile,  Hetty  and 
Jennie,  my  dears,  breathe  not  a  word  of  this  secret  to  any 
one,  whoever  he  or  she  may  be.  The  effrontery  of  the  man 
in  calling  himself  Eandolph  Hay,  and  claiming  the  Hay- 
more  estates,  is  nothing  less  than  insanity !  And  the  cre 
dulity  of  lawyers  in  allowing  his  claim  is  past  belief !» 

"  Oh,  but,  my  dear  father,  he  had  piles  and  piles  of  docu 
ments,  and  no  end  of  direct  testimony  besides !  I  heard  all 
about  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay's  appearance  and  claim  to  the 
Haymore  estates,  and  his  engagement  to  Miss  Leegh  from 
Mrs.  Duncan,  before  I  ever  discovered  that  the  claimant 
and  bridegroom-elect  were  identical  with  my  own  recreant 
husband." 

"  Forged  or  stolen  documents,  Jennie.  And  suborned  and 
perjured  witnesses !  That  is  the  story  of  his  claim,  Jennie. 
But  breathe  not  a  word  to  any  one  of  this  affair !  Let  the 
tenants  and  the  villagers  go  on  with  their  preparations  for 
a  grand  fete.  Let  Capt.  Kightly  Montgomery  and  his  bride 
come  on  in  triumph  to  enjoy  it !  The  higher  the  flight  the 
heavier  the  fall  for  him." 

"  But  the  poor  lady !  She  was  one  of  those  who  helped 
me,  papa." 


136  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"I  am  sorry  for  her!  But,  even  for  her  sake,  the  man 
should  be  exposed  and  punished.  She  must  not  live  with 
him  in  sin!"  said  the  curate.  Then,  after  a  pause,  "I  can 
not  comprehend  how  he  dares  to  come  to  England !  One 
would  think  that  he  would  be  afraid  of  being  recognized.  It 
is  true  that  he  believes  this  family  to  be  on  the  south  coast. 
True,  also,  that  he  knows  the  regiment  to  which  he  lately 
belonged  to  be  in  India,  so  that  there  is  no  danger  of  his 
meeting  with  any  of  his  late  fellow  officers,  but  still  it  is 
always  possible  that  he  may  be  recognized  and  exposed." 

"Oh,  papa,  you  do  not  know  what  a  change  the  full  beard, 
and  a  difference  in  the  parting  of  his  hair,  has  made  in 
him,"  said  Jennie. 

"And,  besides,  did  we  not  hear  that  the  new  squire  does 
not  intend  to  reside  in  England  for  some  years  to  come? 
Did  not  some  one  say  that  he  was  only  coming  here  to  make 
a  sort  of  triumphal  entry  upon  his  paternal  land,  and  then, 
after  liberally  treating  all  his  tenants  and  the  villagers,  he 
was  to  leave  on  extended  travels?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  yes !  I  believe  we  did  hear  something  of  the 
sort.  I  suppose  the  fellow  thinks  he  can  safely  come  here 
with  his  bride  to  gratify  his  pride  and  vanity,  by  exhibiting 
her  and  himself  in  a  triumphal  entry,  after  the  manner  of 
royal  personages !  I  dare  say  he  thinks  himself  secure  in 
doing  that.  But  he  does  not  know  the  Nemesis  that  is  wait 
ing  for  him !  He  does  not  dream  that  he  will  exchange  tri 
umph  for  shame,  luxury  for  torture,  and  Haymore  Hall  and 
fox-hunting  for  Portsmouth  Isle  and  penal  servitude !»  ex 
claimed  the  curate. 

Then  rising,  he  said : 

"I  must  go  and  write  my  sermon.  And  this  has  given  me 
some  new  ideas  for  it." 

And  when  he  left  the  room  Hetty  and  Jennie  both  knew 
that  the  sermon  in  question  would  be  likely  to  deal  more 
with  the  terrors  of  the  law  than  with  the  mercies  of  the 
Lord.  

CHAPTER  XIV. 

COMING  EVENTS. 

THE  autumn  days  passed  calmly  at  the  parsonage  of  Hay- 
more.  The  curate  had  his  own  care,  but  he  kept  it  to  him- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  137 

self.  On  that  morning  succeeding  Jennie's  arrival,  when 
Hetty  had  observed  traces  of  unusual  disturbance  on  the 
brow  of  her  Jimmy  and  had  ascribed  it  to  the  effect  of 
some  distressing  deathbed  scene  of  some  parishoner  and 
therefore  had  forborne  to  question  him,  the  cause  of  the 
curate's  uneasiness  was  just  this :  He  had,  by  that  morn 
ing's  mail,  received  a  letter  from  his  rector  at  Cannes, 
speaking  hopelessly  of  his  own  illness  and  predicting  an 
early  and  fatal  issue. 

James  Campbell  would  not  disturb  his  wife  and  daughter 
with  this  news,  though  it  troubled  him  deeply  and  for  more 
reasons  than  one. 

In  the  first  place,  he  felt  a  warm  affection  for  the  vener 
able  rector  who  had  been  his  father's  classmate  at  Oxford, 
and  who  had  remembered  him  when  he  could  do  him  a 
service  and  put  him  into  his  present  position. 

In  the  second  place,  should  the  rector  die  soon,  his  suc 
cessor  would  be  appointed  by  the  Squire  of  Haymore  and 
would  naturally  dismiss  him,  James  Campbell,  from  his 
curacy.  And  he  and  his  family  would  have  to  go  forth  in 
the  world,  homeless,  moneyless  and  almost  friendless,  in 
midwindter.  What  prospect  lay  before  the  three  but  desti 
tution  and  indebtedness — practically,  first,  to  go  into  the 
cheapest  lodgings  they  could  find;  then  to  go  into  debt  for 
their  daily  food  as  long  as  he  might  be  able  to  get  credit. 

And  after  that— what  ? 

He  did  not  know. 

Of  course,  he  would  try  to  get  work  again — another  cu 
racy,  or  a  tutorship,  or  a  secretaryship.  But  Jimmy  knew 
by  all  his  past  experience  and  observation  how  difficult,  how 
almost  impossible  it  was  for  a  man  in  his  position,  once  out 
of  employment,  ever  to  get  in  again.  If  he  could  only  know 
who  was  to  be  the  successor  of  his  dying  rector,  he  might, 
at  a  proper  time,  try  to  gain  his  favor  to  be  made  his  curate. 

Well — he  thought — "while  he  preacheth  to  others  he 
must  not  himself  be  a  castaway."  As  Hetty  had  told  him, 
he  must  "reck  his  own  read."  He  must  do  the  best  he  could 
and  leave  the  result  to  divine  Providence.  If  he  could  only 
hold  his  present  position.  What  a  commodious  house  he  had 
for  his  dear  ones !  What  an  affluent  garden !  What  a 
.spacious  glebe !  What  a  lovely  home,  taken  altogether ! 
What  a  paradisal  one  for  his  family !  If  he  could  only  re- 


138  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

tain  it  by  any  amount  of  work — by  doing  double  duty,  ten 
fold  duty  in  the  parish !  He  would  not  shrink  from  any 
labor,  any  hardship,  to  retain  this  refuge  for  his  beloved 
ones,  he  thought.  Then  his  conscience  reproached  him — he 
was  thinking  too  much  of  his  own,  too  little  of  his  parish ; 
and  besides,  the  idea  of  remaining  in  this  sweet  home  was 
but  a  dream,  for  if  even  the  successor  of  his  dying  rector 
should  favor  him  so  far  as  to  retain  him  in  the  curacy,  he 
could  not  continue  to  reside  in  the  rectory — where,  of 
course,  the  new  rector  would  take  up  his  abode — but  would 
have  to  find  a  small  house  in  the  village  suitable  to  his  small 
salary  as  a  curate.  But  even  this  last  favor  was  highly  im 
probable.  The  new  rector  would  have  some  young  clerical 
friend  whom  he  would  take  as  his  curate.  They  always  did, 
he  remembered. 

"Is  there  much  sickness  or  suffering  in  the  parish,  Jim 
my  ?"  Hetty  asked  one  day  when  they  happened  to  be  alone 
in  the  parlor  together,  Jennie  being  in  her  bedroom  with 
her  baby,  and  Elspeth  in  the  kitchen  over  her  cooking. 

"Sickness?  Why,  no!  Why  do  you  ask?"  inquired  the 
curate. 

"Is  there  any  distress,  then?" 

"Why,  no!  They  are  all  unusually  well  just  now,  and 
very  hilarious  over  the  prospect  of  the  arrival  of  their  new 
squire  and  his  bride  and  all  the  high  jinks  of  their  recep 
tion.  Why  did  you  ask  such  questions,  Hetty?" 

"Because,  Jimmy,  you  always  look  as  solemn  as  a 
hearse!" 

"Do  I?  Well,  in  view  of  coming  events,  I  cannot  be  ex 
pected  to  look  very  merry,  can  I,  Hetty?"  he  inquired, 
rather  evasively. 

"You  refer  to  the  expected  arrival  of  the  fraudulent 
claimant  and  bigamous  husband,  and  your  duty  to  strike 
him  down, 

"  'Even  in  his  pitch  of  pride/ 

But  I  don't  see  why  that  should  make  you  look  so  solemn. 
And  Jennie  home,  too !  And  the  dear  baby !  Oh,  Jimmy, 
if  you  cannot  appreciate  the  blessings  around  you  and  be 
grateful  and  happy  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  Lord  help 
you !  though  He  certainly  has  a  discouraging  job  of  you., 
just  now !" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  139 

"I  preach  to  my  people  and  weary  them,  no  doubt.  You 
preach  to  me  and — avenge  them!"  laughed  the  Reverend 
James. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  laugh,  even  if  it  is  at  my 
expense,"  said  Hetty. 

"What  are  you  two  quarreling  about?"  inquired  Jennie, 
who  had  put  her  baby  to  sleep  and  now  entered  the  parlor. 

"As  to  which  is  the  best  preacher,  your  mother  of  my 
self,"  answered  the  curate. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  out  and  out !  I  have  often  wished  I  could 
hear  her  in  the  pulpit !"  laughed  Jennie. 

"That  settles  it!  Hetty,  you  have  gained  the  point!" 
said  the  Rev.  James,  as  he  strolled  out  of  the  parlor  into 
his  study. 

His  wife's  words  had  not  been  without  their  effect.  He 
was  just  now  surrounded  with  such  bright  blessings,  living 
in  such  an  atmosphere  of  love,  peace,  health,  comfort,  and 
happiness  that  nothing  could  be  added  to  their  blessedness ; 
yet  their  very  perfection  troubled  him,  lest  they  should  not 
be  permanent.  He  could  not  enjoy  this  blessed  time,  be 
cause  next  month  or  next  year  might  bring  a  change  which 
might  be  for  the  worse. 

Why,  what  base  thanklessness  and  faithlessness  was  this ! 
While  he  "preached  to  others"  he  was  himself  "a  cast 
away." 

But  he  reeolved  that  he  would  reform  all  this.  He  would 
take  no  anxious  care  for  the  future.  He  would  do  the  best 
he  could  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  Lord, 

From  that  day  he  presented  a  more  cheerful  aspect  to  his 
family. 

The  leading  parishioners  began  to  call  on  his  daughter. 

Partly  from  hearsay  and  partly  from  inference,  they  had 
got  a  mixed  opinion  about  the  status  of  the  young  woman. 
She  was  the  wife — so  they  Lad  heard — of  one  Capt.  Kightly 
Montgomery,  son  of  the  late  General  the  Honorable  Arthur 
Montgomery,  and  grandson  of  the  late  and  nephew  of  the 
present  Earl  of  Engelwing;  that  the  captain  was  now,  of 
course,  with  his  regiment  in  India,  and  that  his  young  wife 
had  come  home  with  her  infant  on  a  long  visit  to  her  father, 
because  the  climate  of  India  was  so  fatal  to  young  children, 
of  European  parentage. 


140  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Under  these  mingled  impressions  of  truth  and  error  they 
called  to  pay  their  respects  to  their  pastor's  daughter. 

From  the  village  there  came  Mrs.  and  the  Misses  Leach, 
the  doctor's  wife  and  daughters;  Mrs.  Drum,  the  lawyer's 
mother,  and  the  Misses  Lesmore,  the  draper's  sisters,  and 
several  widows  and  maidens  living  on  their  annuities.  From 
the  country  came  Lady  Nutt,  of  Nuttwood,  the  widow  of  a 
civil  engineer  who  had  been  knighted  for  some  special  merit 
by  the  queen;  the  three  Misses  Frobisher,  "ladies  of  a  cer 
tain  age,"  co-heiresses  of  Frobisher  Frowns,  a  queer  and 
gloomy  mansion  on  the  moor,  which  stood  against  a  bank 
crowned  with  dark  evergreen  trees  that  bent  over  the  roof 
of  the  house,  like  towering  brows  on  a  human  face — thence 
I  suppose  the  quaint  if  not  forbidding  name. 

These  were  all.  Others  of  the  county  gentry  belonging  to 
that  neighborhood  were  absentees. 

Jennie  as  well  as  her  mother  was  much  pleased  with  the 
hearty,  homely,  cordial  manners  of  these  Yorkshire  country 
people.  But  the  better  she  liked  the  more  she  dreadd  them  ! 

"Oh,  mamma!"  she  said,  "I  fear  they  cannot  know  my 
real  position  here !  They  cannot  know  that  I  am  a  forsaken 
wife !  Why,  yesterday  old  Lady  Nutt  patted  my  head  and 
said : 

"I  can  feel  for  you,  my  dear.  I  had  a  niece  in  the  H.  E. 
I.  C.'s  service,  and  she  had  to  come  home  with  her  young 
children  and  leave  them  here  with  their  grandmother  while 
she  went  back  to  him.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  here  with  your 
child,  or  leave  it  here  with  your  parents  and  join  the  cap 
tain  in  India?' 

"Yes,  mamma,  in  all  innocence  the  dear  old  lady  asked 
me  that  question  !  And  my  cheeks  burned  like  fire  as  I  an 
swered  her  the  truth  and  said,  'I  intend  to  stay  here  with 
my  baby,  my  lady.'  She  said,  'That  is  right,'  and  kissed  me 
and  went  away  before  you  came  in." 

"She  is  a  good  old  soul,"  was  Hetty's  only  comment. 

"Yes,  mamma,  but  you  have  missed  the  point  I  wished  to 
make.  It  is  so  embarrassing  to  have  people  call  on  me  and 
make  remarks  that  I  must  either  correct  by  telling  them 
plainly  how  I  am  situated,  or  else  that  I  must  pass  unno 
ticed,  as  if  they  were  true,  and  so,  as  it  were,  silently  in 
dorse  a  false  view." 

"My  dear,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  yourself.     You 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  141 

cannot  blow  a  trumpet  before  you  proclaiming  to  all  and 
sundry  the  wickedness  of  your  husband  in  deserting  you, 
his  lawful  wife,  and  marrying,  feloniously,,  another  woman ! 
You  cannot  even  tell  that  to  your  visitors  in  confidence.  It 
would  not  become  you  to  do  so." 

"No,  mamma,  dear,  I  cannot;  but  some  day  some  visitor 
will  innocently  ask  me  some  straightforward,  plain  ques 
tion,  which  will  require  an  answer,  involving  a  confession 
of  my  real  position.  Oh !  what  shall  I  do  in  such  a  case  ?" 

uMy  dear  child,  wait  until  that  day  comes  and  that  ques 
tion  is  asked.  That  will  be  time  enough  to  worry  about  it. 
Jennie  !  the  secret  of  peace  is  the  practice  of  faith.  Do  your 
present  duty,  bear  your  present  burden,  enjoy  your  present 
blessings,  and  leave  the  future  to  the  Lord.  You  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  it.  For  you  it  has  not  even  an  existence," 
said  Hetty. 

Early  in  December  news  came  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Ran 
dolph  Hay,  in  Paris,  to  his  bailiff,  Mr.  John  Prowt,  an 
nouncing  the  return  of  the  squire,  with  his  wife  and  a  party 
of  friends,  to  spend  the  Christmas  holidays  at  the  Hall. 
The  house  was  to  be  made  ready  for  them  by  the  fifteenth  of 
the  month. 

Again  all  the  estate,  all  the  village  and  all  the  surround 
ing  country  were  agog  with  anticipations  of  the  free  fes 
tivities  that  should  glorify  the  triumphal  entry  of  the  new 
squire  upon  his  paternal  estate. 

Every  one  who  came  to  call  at  the  rectory  talked  of  noth 
ing  but  the  expected  event. 

On  the  next  Sunday  morning  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell 
preached  an  awful  warning  from  the  text : 

"Pride  goeth  before  destruction,  and  an  haughty  spirit 
before  a  fall." 

And  in  the  afternoon  he  preached  a  similar  jeremiad 
from  another  text : 

"I  have  seen  the  wicked  in  great  power,  and  spreading 
himself  like  a  green  bay  tree. 

"Yet  he  passed  away,  and  lo!  he  was  not;  yea,  I  sought 
him,  but  he  could  not  be  found." 

In  the  course  of  the  week  there  came  dire  news  to  the 
parish.  A  telegram  from  his  attendant  physician  in  Cannes 
announced  to  Mr.  Campbell  the  death  of  his  rector,  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Orton,  and  added  that  his  body  would  be  brought 


142  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

to  the  rectory  to  be  interred  under  the  chancel  of  the  Hay- 
more  church. 

The  Rev.  James  Campbell  had  been  prepared  for  this 
blow  for  many  weeks,  or  at  least  he  thought  he  had  been  so ; 
yet  when  it  fell  it  nearly  overwhelmed  him.  He  was  grieved 
for  the  loss  of  his  friend  and  he  was  perplexed  for  his 
household.  At  first  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  at  all.  He 
was  not  a  man  of  resources.  Should  he  immediately  vacate 
the  rectory  with  his  family,  and  go  to  the  village  tavern, 
horrid,  beery  place,  with  a  bar  and  taproom,  or  should  he 
seek  lodgings  in  the  village,  dreadful,  little,  stuffy  rooms,  in 
such  a  place,  or  should  he  remain  at  the  rectory  until  the 
arrival  of  the  family  with  the  remains  of  the  deceased  ? 

At  the  church  he  must  remain,  of  course ;  but  at  the  rec 
tory  when  the  family  of  the  late  rector  were  returning  with 
his  remains. 

The  family  of  the  late  rector,  by  the  way,  consisted  of  an 
aged  widow  and  a  maiden  daughter,  both  of  whom  were 
with  him  at  Cannes,  and  two  unmarried  sons,  one  a  profes 
sor  at  Oxford,  and  the  other  a  popular  preacher  in  London. 
The  curate  consulted  his  wife. 

"Telegraph  the  widow  and  know  her  will  before  you  take 
any  step,"  was  Hetty's  advice,  and  Jimmy  acted  upon  it. 

In  a  few  hours  came  a  courteous  answer  from  Miss  Orton, 
saying,  in  effect,  that  Mr.  Campbell  was  by  no  means  to  dis 
turb  himself  or  his  family.  That  the  delicate  condition  of 
the  widow's  health  must  prevent  her  from  leaving  a  sunny 
climate  for  a  frosty  one  at  this  severe  season;  that  the 
daughter  would  stay  with  her  mother ;  that  the  remains  of 
the  deceased  rector  would  be  accompanied  by  his  two  sons, 
and  taken  directly  from  the  train  to  the  chancel  of  the 
church,  wkere  the  second  funeral  services  would  be  held  on 
Friday,  at  4  P.  M.  (the  first  having  been  held  at  Cannes), 
immediately  after  which  the  sons  would  leave  for  London 
and  Oxford.  So  the  curate's  family  need  not  be  disturbed 
in  the  rectory  until  the  appointment  of  the  new  rector. 

"•  'Until  the  appointment  of  the  new  rector  P  How  long 
reprieve  would  that  be  ?"  inquired  the  curate.  And  then  he 
blamed  himself  for  his  selfishness  in  thinking  so  much  of 
his  own  and  his  family's  interests,  when  he  should  be  think 
ing  only  of  his  departed  friend. 

On  Friday  morning  the  parish  church  at  Haymore  was 


FOB  WHOSE  SAKE? 

decked  in  solemn  funeral  array  to  receive  the  remains  of  its 
rector.  The  pulpit,  altar  and  chancel  were  draped  with 
crape.  Places  of  business  and  schools  were  all  closed  for 
the  day,  and  all  the  parishioners  filled  the  church,  many  in 
deep  mourning,  and  all  the  others  with  some  badge  of 
mourning  on  their  dresses. 

The  wife  and  daughter  of  the  curate  sat  in  the  rectory 
pew.  There,  later,  they  were  joined  by  the  two  sons  of  the 
deceased  rector. 

The  curate,  in  full  vestments,  waited  the  arrival  of  the 
casket,  and,  book  in  hand,  went  to  meet  it  at  the  church 
door,  through  which,  upon  a  bier  of  ebony,  covered  with  a 
pall  of  black  velvet,  it  was  borne  by  six  bearers,  and  mar 
shaled  it  up  the  aisle  and  before  the  chancel,  repeating  the 
sublime  words  of  our  Lord : 

"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  He  that  liveth  and 
believeth  on  me  shall  never  die.  And  he  that  believeth  on 
me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live." 

When  the  bier,  with  th  casket,  was  set  down  before  the 
altar,  and  the  chief  mourners — the  two  sons  of  the  deceased, 
who  had  followed  it — had  taken  their  seats  in  the  rectory 
pew,  then  the  funeral  services,  conducted  by  the  curate, 
went  on  to  their  solemn  ending. 

At  the  close  the  parishoniers  came  out  of  their  pews  in 
an  orderly  manner,  and  passing  on  from  the  right  to  the  left 
before  the  casket,  took  their  last  look  at  the  mask  of  their 
deceased  pastor. 

At  last  the  door  of  the  crypt  below  the  chancel  was 
opened,  and  the  pallbearers  bore  the  casket  down  the  narrow 
stairs  and  laid  it  in  the  leaden  coffin  and  lifted  it  to  the 
stone  niche  prepared  to  receive  it. 

Then  the  "dust  to  dust"  was  spoken,  and  the  minister 
came  up  again,  went  to  the  altar,  pronounced  the  benedic 
tion,  and  so  dismissed  the  congregation. 

As  the  two  sons  of  the  late  rector  came  out  of  their  pew 
they  met  and  shook  hands  with  the  curate,  but  declined  his 
invitation  to  the  rectory,  saying  that  they  were  about  to 
return  immediately  to  Cannes,  to  remain  with  their  wid 
owed  moher  for  the  few  days  in  which  they  would  absent 
themselves  from  their  professional  duties. 

So  they  took  leave  of  the  curate  and  his  wife  and  daugh- 


144  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

ter,  entered  a  carriage  that  was  waiting,  and  drove  off  to 
their  train. 

The  curate,  leaving  his  parishioners  talking  together  in 
groups  in  the  churchyard,  while  the  sexton  was  closing  up 
the  church,  followed  his  wife  and  daughter  through  the  gate 
in  the  wall  that  divided  that  cemetery  from  the  rectory 
grounds. 

He  went  directly  to  his  study  to  compose  himself  before 
joining  his  wife  and  daughter  in  the  parlor. 

But  what  he  found  there  did  not  tend  to  his  composure. 
A  letter,  with  a  Paris  postmark,  was  lying  on  the  table.  He 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  took  it.  At  first  he  thought  it 
must  be  from  Kightly  Montgomery,  whom  he  knew  to  be 
flourishing  in  Paris  under  the  name  of  Randolph  Hay ;  but 
a  moment's  reflection  assured  him  that  the  false  claimant 
was  not  likely  to  know  of  the  accident  of  James  Campbell's 
temporary  charge  of  the  Haymore  parish. 

He  opened  the  letter,  glanced  at  the  signature,  and  saw 
that  it  was  not  a  stranger's,  and  then  read  as  follows : 

"PARIS,  December  13,  187—. 

"REVEREND  AND  DEAR  SIR:  I  learned  with  extreme  grief 
a  few  days  ago  of  the  lamented  death  of  the  late  honored 
rector  of  Haymore.  I  immediately  came  over  to  the  city  to 
see  my  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Hay,  and  apply  to  him  for  the 
living  which  is  in  his  gift.  He  has  been  pleased  to  bestow 
it  on  me.  My  induction  will  date  from  the  first  of  January 
next.  I  do  not  wish  to  inconvenience  you,  but  I  should  be 
obliged  if  you  could  vacate  the  rectory  in  time  to  have  the 
house  prepared  for  my  reception.  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  and 
his  wife  will  be  going  to  Haymore  Hall  for  the  Christmas 
holidays  with  a  party  of  friends,  of  which,  at  his  invitation, 
I  have  the  happiness  to  make  one.  We  shall,  therefore,  soon 
meet  at  Haymore.  With  best  respects  to  Mrs.  Campbell,  I 
remain,  dear  sir,  very  truly  yours, 

"CASSIUS  LEEGH." 

"  Oh,  my  beloved  helpless  ones  !  What  will  become  of  you 
now  ?"  moaned  the  curate,  covering  his  eyes. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  145 

CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CURATE'S  TROUBLE 

AFTER  brooding  over  this  disastrous  letter  for  a  long 
hour  the  curate  summoned  enough  courage  to  arise  and  go 
to  his  wife  and  take  counsel  with  her. 

This  was,  indeed,,  a  trouble  that  he  dared  not  keep  from 
her,  even  to  spare  her  from  anxiety;  for  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  that  they  should  take  immediate  measures  for  re 
moval  from  the  rectory  and  settlement  in  lodgings  some 
where  in  the  town  before  the  arrival  of  the  new  incumbent ; 
or,  so  at  least  it  seemed  to  the  curate  in  his  dismayed  state 
of  mind. 

He  went  directly  into  the  back  parlor,  where  the  fire  was 
burning  cheerfully  in  the  grate,  the  tea  table  was  set,  and 
Hetty  resting  in  her  low  rocking-chair  on  the  rug. 

"Where  is  Jennie?"  inquired  the  curate,  dropping  into 
another  chair  beside  his  wife. 

"In  her  ledroom,  putting  her  baby  to  sleep,"  replied 
Hetty. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  the  child  is  not  here  just  now.  I  have 
bad  news  to  tell  you,  my  dear." 

"Eh?  Bad  news?  What  is  it,  Jimmy?  But,  dear  me, 
don't  look  so  dreadfully  cast  down !  It  cannot  be  such  aw 
fully  bad  news,  since  you,  I,  Jennie  and  the  baby  are  all 
safe  and  sound  in  the  house.  But  what,  then,  is  your  bad 
news  ?" 

"I  have  lost  my  position  here,  and  we  shall  have  to  leave 
the  rectory,"  replied  Mr.  Campbell  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

"Let  me  take  a  look  at  you  ?"  said  his  wife,  rising,  giving 
him  her  hand,  helping  him  to  his  feet,  and  surveying  him 
all  around.  "Well,  I  don't  see  that  you  have  lost  a  limb,  or 
any  mental  or  bodily  faculty,  that  you  need  look  so  woe 
begone  !  As  for  losing  your  postion,  of  course  you  lost  that 
when  the  old  rector  died ;  and  as  for  leaving  the  rectory,  we 
all  knew  that  we  should  have  to  do  that." 

"Yes,  but  not  so  soon.  We  shall  have  to  vacate  by  the 
first  of  January." 

"Well,  that  gives  us  plenty  of  time  to  choose  new  lodg- 


146  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

ings.  I  would  not  'fash  my  beard'  about  that,  if  I  were 
you,  Jimmy !  But  why  must  we  move  by  that  time  ?" 

"Because  my  successor,  or  rather  Dr.  Orton's  successor, 
is  appointed." 

"Already  I" 

"Yes,  already." 

"Upon  my  word,  there  has  been  but  little  time  lost !  And 
you  have  received  notice  to  quit?" 

"Yes,  in  a  letter  from  the  new  incumbent,  which  I  found 
lying  on  my  study  table  when  I  came  in  from  the  church." 

"Who  is  he,  then?" 

"  'Who  is  he  ?'  That  is  the  very  worst  of  all.  Do  you 
remember  that  fellow,  Cassius  Leegh,  who  used  to  come  to 
Medge  parsonage  long  ago  and  fasten  on  us  for  weeks?" 

"I  should  think  so!" 

"He  was  the  son  of  a  small  shopkeeper  in  the  borough, 
London,  studied  for  the  ministry  as  a  matter  of  pride  and 
ambition ;  but,  morally  and  spiritually,  as  unfit  for  the  pul 
pit  as  a  man  can  well  be !  I  do  not  know  how  he  has  con 
trived  to  get  himself  inducted  into  this  living,  except  upon 
the  basis  that  he  and  the  new  squire  are  birds  of  a  feather  !" 

"Stop!"  exclaimed  Hetty  as  a  sudden  light  dawned  on 
her  mind — "I  understand  it  all  perfectly  now!  Don't  you 
know  that  this  man,  this  so-called  new  squire  of  Haymore, 
married  in  New  York  a  young  lady  by  the  name  of  Leegh  ?" 

"I  paid  no  attention  to  the  name  of  the  lady,"  replied 
the  curate. 

"Well,  naturally  I  did,  being  a  woman,  you  know.  And 
the  bride's  name  was  Leegh !  And  surely  you  have  heard 
Cassius  Leegh  speak  of  his  beautiful  sister  Lamia,  who  was 
taken  up  by  a  wealthty  New  York  family?" 

"Why— yes— certainly !" 

"That  is  it,  then.  This  man  Leegh,  no  doubt,  sought  out 
his  brother-in-law  and  put  in  his  plea  for  the  living,  even 
before  Dr.  Orton  was  dead,  and  so  he  has  secured  it,  and 
lost  no  time  in  warning  you  out.  But  I  wonder  if  he  hap 
pened  to  mention  your  name  to  the  'squire/  for  if  so,  the 
said  squirfe,  finding  out  that  you  were  here,  would  scarcely 
venture  to  set  foot  within  the  place  until  you  should  be 
gone." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Campbell  emphatically;  "knowing  the 
man  as  well  as  I  do,  I  can  say  most  positively  that  he  has 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  U7 

never  mentioned  my  name  to  his  patron,  or  even  alluded  to 
the  fact  that  the  late  Dr.  Orton  left  a  temporary  substitute 
to  fill  his  pulpit,  when  he  himself  went  away  for  his  health, 
lest,  you  see,  the  knowledge  of  this  fact  should  cause  the 
squire  to  take  more  time  in  appointing  Dr.  Orton's  succes 
sor.  Don't  you  see?" 

"Yes.  To  leave  the  absent  squire  to  believe  that  the  par 
ish  of  Haymore  was  entirely  destitute  of  a  pastor,  would,  of 
course,  hasten  the  patron,  who  wishes  the  good  opinion  of 
his  people,  to  appoint  an  incumbent,  and  the  most  natural 
thing  would  be  to  appoint  his  brother-in-law.  I  wish  he 
were  a  better  man." 

"So  do  I,  with  all  my  heart"! 

"Well !  we  are  in  Heaven's  hands.  And  as  we  must  clear 
out  by  the  first  of  January,  and  get  into  new  lodgings  some 
where  or  other,  I  will  go  out  the  first  thing  after  breakfast 
to-morrow  morning  to  look  them  up,"  said  Hetty  cheerfully. 

"Lodgings  in  this  town !"  ruefully  grunted  the  curate. 

"They  needn't  be  in  this  town.  There  are,  no  doubt, 
plenty  of  farmhouses  in  the  surrounding  country  where  we 
may  get  them  very  cheap,  and  very  wholesome  and  pleas 
ant." 

"Yes ;  but  how  are  we  to  pay,  even  for  the  cheapest  ?" 

"Jimmy  Campbell !  You  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and 
have  no  more  faith  than  to  ask  such  a  question !  If  you 
have  lost  your  postion  here,  and  if  we  must  leave  the  pleas 
ant  rectory,  still  we  are  three  able-bodied  people,  who,  if 
we  do  the  best  we  can,  and  work  at  any  honest  thing  our 
hands  may  find  to  do,  will  be  helped  by  the  Lord,  and  will 
do  very  well  and  pay  our  way." 

"Oh,  Hetty,  my  dear,  you  have  had  no  experience  in  a 
bitter  struggle  with  the  world !" 

"If  I  have  not,  it  is  well,  perhaps,  that  I  should  have. 
And  I  am  ready  to  engage  in  the  struggle,  though  I  do  not 
see  why  it  need  be  a  bitter  one,  but  just  a  healthful  one." 

"You  have  a  healthful  nature,  dear,  that  is  certain.  As 
for  me,  I  sometimes  think  I  am  falling  weak  in  body  and 
in  mind,"  sighed  the  curate. 

"No,  no,  dear  Jimmy;  not  weak,  only  overworked  and 
weary.  Why,  you  have  not  had  a  vacation  for  eighteen 
years,  to  my  certain  knowledge.  So  long  a  strain  might 
have  made  an  idiot  or  a  'damp,  unpleasant  corpse'  of  any 


14-8  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

man  less  strong  and  brave  than  yourself/'  said  the  wife  with 
affectionate  fervor. 

"It  helps  me  to  see  your  faith  in  me,  dear,"  he  sighed  as 
he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"As  for  me,  Jimmy,  I  am  glad  that  you  will  be  obliged 
to  rest  for  a  few  weeks  or  months.  Don't  doubt.  You  must 
rest.  It  is  our  turn  now.  Mine  and  Jennie's.  We  must 
work." 

"You !    What  in  this  world  could  you  do?" 

"A  good  many  things.  We — Jennie  and  I — could  teach 
English  and  French,  music  and  drawing,  to  young  ladies,  or 
A  B  C's  to  little  children.  Failing  that,  we  could  take  in 
dressmaking  or  plain  sewing.  Failing  that,  I  could  go  out 
as  sick  nurse,  and  Jennie  could  do  up  fine  laces." 

"Hetty,  you  talk  wildly." 

"jSTot  at  all.  Unless  you  preach  wildly.  I  am  only 
going  to  put  into  practice  what  you  preach.  You  tell  the 
artisans  and  agricultural  laborers  that  work  is  worship." 

"I  would  not  mind  your  teaching "  slowly  began  the 

curate. 

"  Of  course  you  would  not,"  promptly  assented  his  wife ; 
"and  I  should  prefer  it.  Teaching  is,  conventionally,  con 
sidered  a  very  'genteel'  occupation  for  a  poor  lady.  And 
for  that,  and  a  few  other  unworthy  reasons,  I  would  rather 
teach  than  do  anything  else.  But  if  I  cannot  get  teaching  to 
do  I  hope  I  am  Christian  enough  to  take  whatever  work  I 
can  get,  whether  it  should  be  dressamking,  plain  sewing, 
sick  nursing,  or — washing  and  ironing.  There !  Even 
that !  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  even  preferring  a  'gen 
teel'  occupation  to  an  humble  one  which  is  equally  useful. 
But  I  won't  let  my  feelings  govern  me  in  this ;  and  so  sure 
as  you  have  to  leave  your  situation  here,  you  shall  take  a  rest 
after  twenty  years'  hard  labor,  and  Jennie  and  I  will  go  to 
work  at  whatever  we  can  get  to  do." 

"Hetty,  you  amaze  and  distract  me!    Y©u  do,  indeed!" 

"Look  here,  Jim.  I  have  not  kept  my  eyes  shut  all  my 
life,  and  this  is  what  I  have  seen — many  unsuccessful  pro 
fessional  'gentlemen  and  ladies,'  who  have  not  talent  enough 
to  climb  where  'there  is  more  room  higher  up/  or  even  to 
keep  their  footing  on  the  level  where  they  were  born,  but 
yet  who  will  struggle,  slip,  flounder,  suffer  and  sin  where 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

they  are  rather  than  take  a  step  'lower  down/  as  they  would 
consider  it,  but  where  there  is  also  'more  room/  r 
"I  don't  quite  follow  you,  Hetty." 
"This  is  what  I  mean:    Take  an  illustration.     A  man 
may  be  an  unsuccessful- lawyer,  but  his  knowledge  of  law 
would  make  him  so  much  better  a  clerk  that  his  chances  of 
employment  in  that  capacity  would  be  much  greater  than 
those  of  other  competitors.  Another  man  may  fail  as  a  min 
ister,  but  he  might  make  all  the  better  schoolmaster.     A 
woman  may  fail  as  a  teacher,  but  succeed  as  a  nurse.    And 
what  I  would  both  inculcate  and  practice  is  this:    That 
when  man  or  woman  fails  in  the  line  of  life  they  have  been 
born  into  or  chosen  for  themselves,  and  when  they  have 
neither  the  power  to  rise  above  the  level  or  to  keep  their 
footing  upon  it,  let  them  not  give  up  in  despair  or  struggle 
in  vain,  but  step  frankly  down  to  an  humbler  and  honester 
position.    There  is  always  some  work  of  some  sort  to  be  got. 
He  who  said  'Six  days  shalt  thou  labor'  will  give  work  to 
every  hand  willing  to  take  it,  though  it  may  not  be  the  kind 
of  work  their  pride  would  like  best.     As  for  me  and  my 
daughter,  whatever  our  'hands  find  to  do,  we  will  do  it  with 
our  might,'  whether  we  like  it  or  not." 

"But,  my  dear,  do  you  really  not  care  about  leaving  this 
beautiful  home?" 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  should  not  care  to  stay,  even 
if  we  could.  Should  you?  Reflect.  The  new  squire  will  be 
here  in  a  few  days.  You  will  have  to  denounce  him  as  an 
impostor,  a  fraudulent  claimant,  a  bigamous  bridegroom. 
But  it  would  take  time  to  prove  these  charges.  Could  you 
stay  in  the  parish  and  preach  in  the  church  during  that 
time  with  any  sort  of  peace  to  us  all?  ISTo.  Bet 
ter  that  we  should  go  away,  and  the  sooner  we  go  the 
better. " 

"My  dear,  I  shall  easily  prove  the  fellow  to^be  a  big 
amist  ;  but  as  his  crime  was  committed  in  the  United  States 
of  America,  I  cannot  prosecute  him  for  it  here  in  England. 
Neither  can  I  prove  him  to  be  a  fraudulent^  claimant.  I 
have  been  turning  that  matter  over  in  my  mind,  and  I  do 
not  even  know  that  he  is  one." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Hetty  with  wide-open  eyes,  "lou 
do  not  know  him  to  be  a  fraudulent  claimant  when  you 


150  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

know  that  his  name  is  Kightly  Montgomery,  and  that  ho 
calls  himself  Eandolph  Hay?" 

"  See  here,  my  love.  I  know  nothing  of  the  conditions  of 
inheritance  that  rule  this  estate.  I  know  nothing  of  the 
history  of  the  family  or  their  intermarriages  with  other 
families.  How  should  I,  coming  here  a  stranger  from  the 
south  of  England  ?" 

"I  should  think  it  could  not  require  much  experience  to 
teach  you  that  when  a  man's  name  is  Kightly  Montgomery 
and  he  calls  himself  Eandolph  Hay,  he  is  a  liar,  swindler 
and  an  impostor." 

"But  consider,  dear,  he  may  be  next  of  kin  and  heir-at- 
law,  and  his  name  now  have  been  legally  changed  as  the 
condition  of  his  inheritance.  His  mother  or  his  grand 
mother  may  have  been  born  a  daughter  of  Hay,  of  Haymore. 
The  estate  may  have  'fallen  to  the  distaff,'  as  it  is  called — 
that  is,  to  the  female  line,  and  so  the  heir  through  that  line 
might  be  obliged  to  take  the  family  name  as  the  condi 
tion  of  his  heirship.  Now  do  you  see?" 

"Yes,  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  your  theory  has  so 
many  'mays'  that  it  won't  do.  As  for  me,  I  prefer  to  think 
the  villain  a  fraudulent  claimant  as  well  as  a  bigamous 
bridegroom." 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  ring  at  the  doorbell. 

Mr.  Campbell  went  to  answer  it.  It  was  his  custom  al 
ways,  when  at  home,  to  do  so,  to  save  the  steps  of  the  rec 
tory's  one  elderly  servant-woman. 

There  was  a  hanging  lamp  in  the  little  hall  between  the 
parlor  and  the  study  that  gave  but  a  subdued  light.  They 
had  no  gas,  and  oil  was  dear,  and  economy  necessary. 

Mr.  Campbell  opened  the  door,  expecting  to  see  no  one 
but  the  little  old  sexton.  He  saw,  instead,  the  tallest  and 
finest  looking  athlete  he  had  ever  seen  in  or  out  of  a  circus; 
but  he  could  not  distinguish  his  features. 

"The  Eev.  Mr.  Campbell?"  said  the  stranger  interrog 
atively. 

"That  is  my  name.  What  can  I  do  for  you?"  inquired 
the  curate,  who,  now  that  his  eyes  had  got  used  to  the  ob 
scurity,  saw  that  the  collossus  was  clothed  from  head  to  heel 
in  an  outlandish  costume  of  dressed  buckskin  trimmed  with 
fur,  and  that  his  stature  was  heightened,  and  his  face 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  151 

shortened  by  the  tall  fur  cap  he  wore  pulled  low  down  aver 
his  forehead  and  ears,  for  the  night  was  cold. 

"My  name  is  Longman — Samson  Longman,  at  your  serv 
ice,  sir.  I  have  been  directed  by  the  people  at  Chuxton  to 
come  to  you,  sir,  for  information  concerning  one  Elizabeth 

Longman,  widow "  The  speaker's  voice  trembled  and 

broke. 

"Your  mother!"  said  the  curate  gravely.  "She  is  well 
and  happy  as  she  can  be,  without  the  son  she  is  always 
pining  for  and  praying  for." 

"  Heaven  be  praised  for  that !  And  may  the  Lord  forgive 
me.  Where  is  she,  sir,  if  you  please?" 

"With  us  here  in  the  house,  our  cherished  housekeeper, 
almost  our  mother " 

"  Thank  the  Lord !  Can  I  see  her,  sir,  now,  at  once  ?  I 
have  come  a  long  way  to  ask  her  forgiveness  at  last,  and  to 
stay  with  her  forever." 

"  Come  into  my  study.  We  must  prepare  her  for  the  sight 
of  her  son,  for  although  she  seems  to  be  always  expecting 
you,  yet  the  sudden  meeting  might  be  too  much  for  her," 
said  the  curate  as  he  closed  the  front  door  after  the  entrance 
of  his  visitor  and  led  the  way  into  the  study. 

"Xow,  Mr.  Longman,  sit  down  here  at  my  desk  and  write 
a  letter  to  your  mother.  It  need  be  only  a  line  or  so,  to 
give  me  the  means  of  breaking  the  glad  tidings  safely  to 
her  ears,"  said  Mr.  Campbell  as  he  turned  up  the  light  of 
the  study  lamp  and  placed  a  chair  for  the  visitor. 

Longman  obeyed  like  a  child,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  his 
letter. 

"Will  that  do?"  he  inquired  as  he  put  the  sheet  of  paper 
into  the  curate's  hands. 

"Yes!  that  will  do  very  well.  Now  put  it  into  an  en 
velope  and  seal  and  direct  it  regularly,"  said  the  curate 
when  he  had  read  and  returned  the  letter. 

Again  Longman  obeyed  like  a  child,  and  when  he  had 
sealed  the  letter,  arose  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the 
curate. 

Resume  your  seat  and  wait  for  my  return,"  said  Mr. 
Campbell  as  he  left  the  study. 

He  went  first  into  the  parlor. 

Hetty  was  still  sitting  there  alone.  Jennie  was  still  with 
her  babv  in  the  bedroom. 


152  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Who  was  that,  Jim?  A  man  come  to  serve  you  with  a 
writ  of  eviction?"  inquired  Hetty  mischievously. 

"Hardly,  my  dear.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy  to 
hear  who  it  was." 

"Who  was  it,  then?" 

"Elspeth  Longman's  prodigal  son  returned." 

"Oh-h-h,  Jim!"  exclaimed  Hetty,  jumping  up,  her  face 
perfectly  radiant  with  benevolent  delight. 

"Yes,  dear.  And  now,  if  you  please,  I  will  take  you  to 
see  him  in  the  study,  where  you  can  talk  to  him  while  I  go 
and  break  these  'glad  tidings  of  great  joy7  to  the  poor,  long- 
suffering  mother." 

"  Oh,  yes  !    I  would  love  to  go  !    What  is  the  boy  like  ?" 

"  'Boy?'  'Like?'  He  is  like  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  or 
like  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes.  A  superb,  a  stupendous  fellow. 
But  all  dressed  in  hides  like  a  North  American  Indian,  or 
a  prehistoric  Norseman.  But  come  and  see!"  said  Mr. 
Campbell,  leading  the  way  to  the  study. 

Hetty  followed,  now  half  anxious,  half  afraid  to  see  the 
savage. 

As  they  entered  Longman,  seeing  the  lady,  arose,  bowed 
and  handed  a  chair  with  so  much  ease,  dignity  and  grace 
that  Mrs.  Campbell  was  surprised,  pleased  and  reassured. 

"Mr.  Longman,  this  lady  is  my  wife.  She  will  entertain 
you  while  I  go  to  your  mother,"  said  the  curate. 

Longman  bowed  more  profoundly  than  before,  and  mur 
mured  something  to  the  effect  that  he  was  most  honored 
and  grateful  to  be  permitted  to  make  the  lady's  acquaint 
ance  ;  but  the  hunter  was  always  shy  in  the  society  of  gentle 
women. 

Then  Mr.  Campbell,  knowing  that  Hetty  could  give  the 
prodigal  son  more  satisfactory  information  about  his  mother 
in  five  minutes  *han  any  other  creature  could  in  five  years, 
went  out  and  left  them  together. 

He  passed  through  the  parlor  and  opened  the  kitchen 
door.  He  saw  Elspeth  sitting  before  the  stove,  knitting,, 
while  she  waited  for  her  muffins  to  bake. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  parlor  for  a  moment?  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Longman,"  said  the  curate. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  woman,  rising  and  untying  her 
kitchen  apron,  which  she  took  off  and  hung  over  the  back 
of  her  chair.  Then  she  went  into  the  parlor. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  15B 

"Take  Mrs.  Campbell's  rocking-chair  while  we  talk.  Save 
your  back  whenever  you  can,  Mrs.  Longman." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  it  better  becomes  me  to  stand  in  your  rev 
erence's  presence." 

"Pray,  sit  down.  No,  but  I  insist  upon  it.  I  have  some 
thing  to  say  to  you  which  cannot  be  said  in  a  minute." 

The  widow  sighed  profoundly  and  sank  into  the  easy- 
chair.  She  thought  she  knew  what  was  coming.  Without 
the  least  intention  of  eavesdropping,  she  had  heard  enough 
of  the  conversation  that  had  that  evening  passed  between 
the  minister  and  his  wife — and  which,  by  the  way,  had  never 
been  intended  to  be  concealed — to  know  that  they  expected 
to  leave  the  rectory  under  such  reverse  of  fortune  as  would 
compel  them  to  use  the  closest  economy  in  their  domestic 
arrangements. 

Therefore  Elspeth  thought  that  she  had  been  summoned 
to  the  parlor  to  receive  her  "warning"  or  her  discharge. 
And  she  felt  not  so  sorry  for  herself  in  the  prospect  of  losing 
a  good  home  as  for  the  curate  and  his  wife  on  having  to 
dispense  with  her  services.  She  was  turning  over  in'  her 
meek  mind  the  question  of  how,  without  seeming  presump 
tuous,  she  could  offer  to  remain  with  them  and  serve  them 
without  wages,  just  so  long  as  her  strength  and  also  her 
clothes  and  shoes  should  last,  and  if  they  could  afford  to 
keep  her  even  on  such  easy  terms  as  her  board  and  lodging. 

Mr.  Campbell  broke  gently  in  upon  her  troubled  thoughts 
by  asking  her : 

"Have  you  ever  received  any  letter  from  your  son  since 
he  has  been  away,  Mrs.  Longman?" 

"Not  one,  sir,  though  I  feel  sure  in  my  mind  that  he  has 
writ  to  me,  maybe  many  letters,  and  they  have  all  gone 
astray;  and  then  what  hurts  me  worst  of  all  is  that  he  may 
think  I  must  have  got  some  of  his  letters  and  as  I  was  too 
mad  at  him  and  too  unforgiving  to  answer  any  of  them. 
And  I  don't  even  know  where  to  write  to  tell  him  any 
better." 

"But  when  at  last  you  meet,  face  to  face,  then  you  can 
tell  him." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir.  And  I  know  that  we  shall  meet  again.  He 
who  raised  the  widow's  son  from  his  bier  will  hear  the  poos 
old  widowed  mother's  prayer,  and  bring  her  boy  back. 
Though  it  seems  long!  Oh,  it  seems  long!  But  all  the 


154  FOE  WHOSE  SAKE? 

while  it  comforts  me  to  think  that  if  I  don't  know  where  he 
is,  the  Lord  does !  If  I  can't  see  him,  the  Lord  can !  And 
I  may  pray  to  the  Lord  for  my  boy  and  He  will  hear  me !" 

"How  old  are  you,  Mrs.  Longman?"  was  the  curate's  next 
seemingly  irrelevant  question. 

"Forty-three,  sir;  will  be  forty-four  on  the  thirty-first  of 
December.  But  I  must  look  full  sixty,  my  hair  is  so  white, 
and  my  face  so  thin  and  wrinkly." 

"Well,  you  have  good  health,  and  you  Yorkshire  people 
are  long-lived.  You  may  live  forty  years  longer  yet — forty 
happy  years  with  your  son." 

"Oh,  minister!  what  does  your  reverence  mean?  Have 
you  heard  anything?  Have  you  got  anything  to  tell  me?" 
inquired  the  mother,  startled  by  something  in  the  curate's 
tone  or  look,  and  speaking  with  repressed  eagerness. 

"Well,  something  has  come.  Have  you  anybody  who 
would  be  likely  to  write  a  letter  to  you?" 

"Nobody  in  the  world,  sir,  except  my  boy,  and  I  have 
never  had  a  letter  from  him,  as  I  told  you." 

"Well,  a  letter  has  come  for  you.  I  did  not  give  it  at 
first,  for  fear  it  might  startle  you.  I  think  it  must  be  from 
your  son." 

"Oh,  give  it  to  me,  sir,  please  ! — now,  this  moment !" 

The  curate  handed  the  letter.  The  woman  seized  it,  held 
it  under  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  devoured  the  superscrip 
tion  with  ravenous  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes!  It  is  his  writing!  It  is  his  own !  Oh,  thank 
the  Lord !  Oh,  thank  the  Lord !"  she  cried,  falling  on  her 
knees  and  sinking  her  head  in  the  cushion  of  the  chair. 
But  she  soon  arose  and  drew  her  spectacles  from  her  pocket 
and  opened  the  letter  and  tried  to  read  it ;  but  the  words  ran 
together  in  dark  lines  before  her  disturbed  vision,  and  she 
could  not  decipher  them. 

"Oh,  sir,  be  so  kind  !    Read  it  for  me  !    Please  do !" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Campbell.  And  he  took  the 
letter,  and  omitting  date,  read  as  follows: 

"  'My  BELOVED  MOTHER '  " 

"The  darling  boy !"  ejaculated  Elspeth  in  rapture. 

"  fl  have  crossed  the  sea  and  come  back  toEngland '  " 

"He  is  in  England!  In  England!  Oh,  thank  Heaven! 
Thank  Heaven  !  Go  on,  sir !  Please  go  on !"  impatiently 
exclaimed  Elspeth. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  155 

The  curate  smiled  at  her  impetuosity  and  continued : 

"  'To  see  your  dear  face  again,  and  to  beg  your  forgive 
ness,  which  I  know  you  will  grant  me,  though  I  know  I  do 
not  deserve  it '  >: 

"Ah,  hear  the  noble  fellow!  Taking  all  the  blame  on 
himself,  though  I  was  more  in  fault  nor  him !  But  go  on, 
sir !  Pray  go  on !" 

"  'I  long  to  be  with  you,  to  stay  with  you  all  the  rest  of 
our  lives;  to  work  for  you,  and  to  try  to  make  you  happy 
and  comfortable,  and  so  atone  for  all  the  trouble  I  have 
caused  you '  '; 

"  Oh !  the  grand  son !  the  noble  boy !  He  will  stay  with 
me  all  the  rest  of  my  life !  Oh,  that  will  be  joyful !"  ex 
claimed  Elspeth,  clapping  her  hands  and  breaking  into  a 
camp  meeting  revival  hymn,  very  appropriate,  it  is  true : 

"  'Oh  !  that  will  be  joyful ! 
Joyful!  Joyful!  Joyful! 

Oh!  that  will  be  joyful, 

To  meet  and  part  no  more !' 

"  It  will  be  like  heaven,  sir !  like  heaven !  to  have  my  boy 
with  me  all  the  rest  of  my  life  !  But  do  go  on,  sir  !  Forgive 
a  poor  mother's  impatience,  and  read  me  what  else  he 
says !"  she  cried,  ready  to  turn  from  rapture  to  tears, 

"There  is  not  much  more,"  said  Mr.  Campbell.  "Only 
this : 

"  Tlease,  dearest  mother,  if  you  can  pardon  me,  let  me 
know  when  I  can  come  to  see  you.  And  believe  me  your 
sincerely  penitent  and  evermore  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  'SAM.'  ' 

"  Oh  !  the  darling  of  darlings  !  the  angel  of  angels  !  Oh, 
please,  dear  minister,  write  for  me  directly,  for  I  never  can 
hold  a  pen  in  the  hand  that  is  trembling  for  joy  and  blessed 
ness  and  gratitude,  and  tell  him  to  come  immediately.  But, 
no  !  I  will  go  to  him  !  Where  is  he  ?  I'll  get  the  Red  Fox 
carryall  and  start  for  the  station  immediately.  Truly, 
wlioro  shall  I  go  ?  Tell  me,  minister,  dear !  Look  at  the 
letter!  Where  is  it  dated  from?"  she  eagerly  demanded. 

"  You  will  not  have  far  to  go.  He  is  in  this  village,"  said 
Mr.  Campbell,  smiling. 


156  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"In  this  village !  Oh  !  then  he  is  at  the  Red  Fox !  Let 
me  get  my  bonnet  and  cloak !"  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"He  is  nearer  to  you  than  that/'  said  the  minister.  Then 
he  drew  the  woman's  arm  within  his  own  and  led  her  into 
the  study. 

"Mother!"  exclaimed  Longman,  starting  up  and  striding 
toward  her  with  outstretched  arms. 

"Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!"  cried  Elspeth,  and  she 
fell  fainting  on  his  bosom. 

So  much  for  the  careful  breaking  of  the  news. 

But  she  did  not  swoon  to  unconsciousness.  She  almost 
immediately  recovered. 

Then  Longman  seated  her  in  the  large  armchair,  and 
placed  himself  on  the  hassock  at  her  feet.  She  put  her  arms 
over  his  shaggy  head  and  smiled  through  her  tears. 

"Come !"  said  Hetty,  laughing.  "You  and  I  are  de  trop 
in  a  room  with  such  a  pair  of  lovers  as  these !"  And  she 
slipped  her  hand  through  her  husband's  arm  and  dragged 
him  from  the  room  without  the  reunited  pair — so  absorbed 
in  their  meeting — seeing  them  go. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SQUIRE'S  ARRIVAL 

HETTY  drew  her  husband  back  into  the  cozy  parlor,  where 
they  found  Jennie  waiting  alone. 

"Well,  I  have  put  the  baby  to  sleep  at  last !  Little  witch  ! 
she  wanted  to  laugh  and  crow  and  kick  all  night.  Such  a 
time  as  I  had  getting  her  quiet !  But  where  have  you  two 
been?  You  look — just  as  if  you  had  come  from  a  circus !" 
said  Jennie. 

"So  we  have!  or  rather  from  a  domestic  drama!"  ex 
claimed  Hetty,  laughing ;  and  then  she  told  her  daughter  all 
about  the  sudden  return  of  Samson  Longman,  and  the  joy 
of  his  mother. 

Jennie  listened  in  sympathetic  delight. 

"And  now,  my  dear,  you  may  come  in  the  kitchen  and 
help  me  to  bring  in  the  tea.  Elspeth  has  forgotten  that 
there  is  any  such  thing  as  tea  in  the  world.  And  who  can 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  157 

blame  her !"  exclaimed  Hetty  as  she  left  the  room  attended 
by  her  daughter. 

It  was,,  indeed,  nearly  an  hour  beyond  their  usual  tea 
time. 

The  tea  was  drawn  too  much,  and  the  muffins  were  baked 
too  dry ;  nevertheless,  father,  mother,  and  daughter  enjoyed 
the  refreshment. 

There  was  a  good-sized  dining-room  in  the  rear  of  the 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  but  for  reasons  of  econ 
omy  it  was  not  used  in  cold  weather,  as  it  would  require  an 
other  fire,  the  meals  being  served  in  the  family  sitting-room 
or  parlor. 

Now,  however,  as  soon  as  the  curate  and  his  family  arose 
from  the  tea,  his  wife  said: 

"Jimmy,  we  must  be  kind.  The  kindlings  and  coal  are 
all  laid  in  the  grate  of  the  back  room  ready  for  lighting  a 
fire  when  required.  Do,  dear,  go  and  start  it;  and  Jennie 
and  I  will  clear  off  this  tea  table,  and  set  another  in  there 
for  Elspeth  and  her  big  boy  to  take  their  tea  comfortably ; 
for  it  is  not  every  day  that  a  prodigal  son  returns." 

"And  you  just  know  how  it  is  yourselves,  don't  you,  papa 
and  mamma  ?"  inquired  the  prodigal  daughter,  tenderly. 

"Yes,  we  do;  and  I  will  go  right  off  and  do  as  you  wish," 
exclaimed  the  curate  merrily  as  he  left  the  room. 

Hetty  and  Jennie  went  eagerly  to  work,  and  soon  cleared 
away  their  own  table,  and  then  went  and  eet  one  in  the 
dining-room,  where  the  curate  had  already  kindled  a  good 
fire  in  the  grate. 

Hetty  brought  out  from  all  the  treasures  of  pantry  and 
cupboard,  and  in  addition  to  the  substantial  fare  of  cold 
beef  and  ham,  cheese,  bread  and  butter,  she  laid  out  cake, 
honey  and  sweetmeats. 

When  all  this  was  done  she  made  a  large  pot  of  fresh  tea 
and  set  it  to  draw.  Finally  she  returned  to  the  parlor  and 
eat  down  with  her  husband  and  daughter  in  pleasant  expec 
tancy  for  developments  from  the  study. 

She  had  not  to  wait  long.  Very  soon  came  Elspeth  into 
the  parlor,  her  eyes  shining  with  happiness,  and  said : 

"If  you  please,  sir,  Samson — that  is  my  boy — would  like 
to  thank  you  and  say  good-evening  before  he  goes  away." 
Then  noticing  for  the  first  time  that  the  tea  table  had  been 


158  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

cleared  away,  she  started  with  a  little  look  of  dismay,  and 
before  anybody  could  speak  again,  she  said: 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry  !     I  clean  forgot !     I " 

"Don't  say  another  word,  dear  woman.  It  is  all  right — 
quite  right.  Jennie  and  I  did  all  that  was  necessary,  and 
took  pleasure  in  doing  it.  And  as  for  your  boy  saying 
good-night  and  going  away  before  he  has  broken  bread  with 
you,  that  cannot  be  permitted  on  any  account.  There! 
take  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  you  will  find  a  fine 
fire,  and  a  tea  table,  and  a  pot  of  tea  simmering  on  the  hob." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  but  you  are  too  good !" 

"Nonsense!  I'm  delighted — we  are  all  delighted!  And, 
Elspeth,  when  you  have  had  your  tea,  bring  your  boy  in  to 
us  while  you  go  upstairs  and  make  him  up  a  bed  in  the  little 
spare  room  next  to  your  own.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  you  are  too  good!  Whatever  shall  I  do  to 
repay  your  kindness !"  exclaimed  the  grateful  creature,  with 
eyes  full  of  tears,  as  she  lifted  Hetty's  hand  and  pressed  it 
to  her  lips. 

"Do  just  as  she  tells  you,  Mrs.  Longman.  And  say  to 
your  son  that  we  should  be  pleased  to  have  him  remain 
here  with  you  until  after  Christmas.  He  shall  be  most  cor 
dially  welcome  to  us  all,"  added  Mr.  Campbell. 

"God  bless  you,  sir,  for  your  great  kindness;  for  indeed 
it  will  be  a  great  joy  to  me  to  have  my  boy  under  the  very 
same  roof  with  me  for  a  few  days,  now  that  he  has  come 
back,"  said  Elspeth,  her  wintry  face  in  an  April  aspect  of 
smiles  and  tears. 

"And,  of  course,  it  is  a  delight  to  us  to  be  able  to  con 
tribute  to  your  happiness,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Campbell 
cheerily. 

Elspeth  dropped  her  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  went  out. 

And  very  soon  the  three  remaining  in  the  parlor  heard 
the  mother  and  her  son  going  down  the  passage  to  the  rear 
dining-room  that  was  behind  the  study. 

Hetty  and  Jennie  took  their  needlework,  and  Mr.  Camp 
bell  picked  up  the  morning  paper,  which  no  one  had  had 
time  to  look  at  all  day  long,  and  began  to  read  to  them 
items  of  news. 

So  an  hour  passed. 

The  reunited  mother  and  son  lingered  long  in  the  dining- 
room,  but  at  length  they  came  out  and  entered  the  parlor. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  159 

Longman  went  at  once  up  to  Mr.  Campbell  and  said : 

"Sir,  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  hospitality  you  have 
so  kindly  proffered  me,  and  which,  for  my  mother's  sake, 
I  am  very  happy  to  accept." 

"Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Longman.  Have  a  seat.  This 
is  my  daughter,  Mrs.  Montgomery/'  said  the  curate,  rising 
and  handing  a  chair. 

Longman  bowed  profoundly  to  the  young  lady,  and  then 
dropped  into  his  seat. 

Elspeth  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Campbell : 

"Which  room  did  you  say,  ma'am,  he  might  have?" 

"Any  vacant  one  you  please.  The  little  room  next  to 
your  own  you  might  prefer,  perhaps,"  returned  Hetty. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  would,  thanky,  ma'am,"  said  Elspeth,  and 
she  left  the  parlor. 

"When  did  you  reach  England,  Mr.  Longman?"  inquired 
Hetty,  to  make  conversation  and  set  the  embarrased  colossus 
at  his  ease. 

"Only  about  twenty-four  hours  since,  ma'am.  And  I 
had  the  honor  of  traveling  in  company  with  the  new  Squire 
of  Haymore  and  his  bride,  expected  by  the  people  in  this 
neighborhood,"  replied  Longman,  looking  down  on  his  own 
folded  hands,  so  that  he  failed  to  see  the  effect  of  his  words ; 
for  Mr.  Campbell  started,  Hetty  gasped,  and  Jennie  turned 
pale. 

And  the  conversation  that  followed  was  all  at  cross-pur 
poses,  for  Longman  came  to  speak  of  Randolph  Hay,  the 
only  true  Squire  of  Haymore,  and  his  wife,  Judith,  and  of 
their  crossing  the  Atlantic  Ocean  together ;  while  the  curate 
and  his  family  spoke  of  Kightly  Montgomery,  the  fraudu 
lent  claimant,  and  his  deceived  bride,  Lamia  Leegh,  and  of 
their  crossing  the  English  Channel. 

"The  Squire  of  Haymore  and  his  lady  are  in  England, 
then  ?"  was  the  remark  with  which  the  curate  reopened  the 
conversation. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  had  the  honor  of  coming  over  in  the  same 
steamer  with  them.  We  landed  yesterday." 

"And  you  left  them  in  London  ?" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  no.  We  traveled  from  London  together. 
We  reached  Chuxton  this  afternoon  about  sunset.  We  had 
to  wait  there  for  a  conveyance  hither,  and  while  we  waited, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  and  their  party  took 


160  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

luncheon,  I  went  in  search  of  my  dear  mother,  expecting  to 
find  her  there  where  I  had  left  her,  but  I  heard  instead  that 
she  was  living  at  the  rectory  with  your  family.  So  then  I 
told  Mr.  Bandolph  Hay,  and  he  very  kindly  offered  me  a 
scat  in  his  carriage,  and  so  brought  me  on  here.  I  rode  to 
the  Hall  with  them,  and  there  left  them  and  walked  on 
here." 

^And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  squire  and  his  lady 
are  now  really  at  the  Hall  ?"  demanded  the  astonished  cu 
rate. 

"Yes,  sir,  as  I  said,  or  should  have  said,  they  arrived 
to-night  a  little  after  dusk." 

"But,"  continued  the  deeply  perplexed  curate,  "I  don't 
understand.  The  squire  and — his  lady  were  to  have  sent  a 
telegram  from  London  announcing  their  approach,  and 
were  expected  to  make  quite  a  triumphal  entry  by  daylight, 
amid  the  ringing  of  bells  and  singing  of  children,  and  fling 
ing  of  flowers,  and  all  the  parade  and  pageantry  that  this 
season  would  permit.  Prowt,  the  bailiff,  has  had  his  orders 
to  be  in  readiness  for  weeks  past,  and  for  days  has  been 
waiting  a  telegram." 

"I  don't  know  how  that  is,  sir.  I  know  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  came  home  very  quietly  indeed,"  re 
plied  Longman. 

"But  was  it  not  a  great  surprise,  not  to  say  shock,  to  the 
servants  at  the  Hall?  And  were  they  at  all  ready  for  the 
squire  and — his  lady?" 

"I  think  so,  sir.  I  know  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  sent  a  dis 
patch  to  the  housekeeper  at  the  Hall,  with  instructions  to 
have  rooms  aired  and  fires  built,  dinner  prepared,  and  every 
thing  in  readiness  to  receive  himself  and  his  wife  this  even 
ing.  I  know  it,  sir,  for  I  carried  the  dispatch  to  the  tele 
graph  office  myself,"  said  Longman. 

"The  people  will  be  very  much  disappointed  at  missing 
the  pageantry,"  remarked  the  curate. 

"I  do  not  think  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  cared  for 
display.  I  am  a  little  surprised  that  it  should  have  been 
thought  of  in  connection  with  them,"  said  Longman,  re 
flectively. 

"Why,  man  alive,  it  was  by  the  squire's  own  orders,  with 
out  the  slightest  suggestion  from  anybody  here !"  laughed 
the  curate. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  161 

"It  was  not  like  him.  A  more  modest  and  unpretending 
gentleman  I  do  not  know  anywhere  in  this  world !"  persisted 
Longman. 

The  curate  repressed  an  inclination  to  utter  a  long,  low 
whistle ;  but  he  did  say  to  himself :  "So  much  for  the  blind 
ness  of  prejudice." 

"Oh!  I  have  just  thought  of  it!  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
think  the  triumphal  entry  was  abandoned!"  exclaimed 
Hetty. 

"Why?"  inquired  her  husband. 

"Why,  on  account  of  the  death  of  the  rector." 

"  Oh !  to  be  sure !  that  was  it ;  though  it  was  a  more 
gracious  thought  than  I  should  have  given  the  man  credit 
for,"  added  Mr.  Campbell. 

At  this  moment  Elspeth  came  in,  smiling.  She  had  been 
absent  much  longer  than  they  had  expected  her  to  be;  for 
she  had  not  only  prepared  the  little  spare  bedroom  for  her 
son,  but  she  had  washed  up  all  her  dishes  and  done  all  her 
usual  evening  work.  She  carried  a  lighted  candle  in  a  low, 
broad  brass  candlestick.  She  courtesied  to  the  ladies  and 
gentleman,  as  was  her  custom,  and  then  she  said  to  her  boy : 

"And  now,  Sam,  the  room  the  kind  master  has  given  you 
is  all  ready,  and  I  will  show  it  to  you  if  you  will  come." 

And  Longman  arose,  bade  good-night  to  his  hosts,  and 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mr.  Campbell  said : 

"But  perhaps  you  would  like  to  join  us  in  our  evening 
service." 

Longman  bowed  in  silence,  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"Yes,"  said  Elspeth  brightly.  "Every  night  and  morn 
ing  since  I  have  been  in  this  house  has  the  minister  prayed 
for  my  wandering  boy's  return,  and  now  that  he  has  come 
we  will  give  thanks." 

Jennie  arose  and  got  the  Bible  and  prayer  book  and  laid 
them  before  her  father. 

And  the  evening  service  began. 

In  the  course  of  it  Mr.  Campbell  did  return  "earnest  and 
hearty  thanks"  for  the  restoration  of  the  widow's  son,  and 
prayed  that  all  wanderers  from  the  spiritual  fold  of  the- 
Lord  might  likewise  be  brought  back. 

When  the  service  was  over,  Elspeth,  after  bidding  good 
night  to  her  friends,  took  up  her  candle  and  showed  her  boy 


162  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

the  way  to  his  bedroom.  And  soon  after  the  minister  and 
his  wife  and  daughter  retired. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  those  benign  autumn  days  that 
sometimes  revisit  us  even  late  in  December,  to  encourage 
and  help  us  through  the  winter.  The  sky  was  radiantly 
clear  and  the  sun  dazzlingly  bright.  The  many  evergreen 
trees  around  the  parsonage  had  something  like  the  fresh 
verdure  of  early  spring  upon  them.  It  was  a  day  that  any 
healthy  person  might  have  enjoyed  the  outdoor  air  without 
much  extra  clothing. 

After  breakfast  Longman  went  over  to  the  Hall  to  see 
his  friends. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell,  standing  together  at  the  door, 
watched  him  walking  down  the  walled  road  that  led  to  the 
park  gates. 

"It  is  astonishing,"  said  the  curate,  "that  so  honest  a 
man  as  Longman  should  have  such  a  respect  for  that  villain 
Montgomery  as  he  appears  to  have." 

"I  suppose  the  young  fellow  has  never  seen  the  villain's 
cloven  foot,  and  men  have  no  intuitions  to  guide  them  as 
we  have,  you  know,"  replied  Hetty. 

And  then,  though  the  splendor  of  the  day  invited  them  to 
remain  outdoors,  they  went  inside,  each  to  his  or  her  own 
work. 

The  minister  went  to  his  study  to  work  on  his  next  Sun 
day  morning's  sermon.  Hetty  to  her  linen  closet  to  look 
over  her  stores  for  mending.  Jennie,  well  wrapped  up,  to 
take  her  baby,  also  warmly  clad,  through  the  garden  walks. 
Elspeth  to  her  kitchen  to  wash  up  the  breakfast  service. 

The  minister,  however,  had  scarcely  got  under  way  with 
his  manuscripts  before  the  doorbell  rang,  and  he  sprang  up 
to  answer  it. 

Prowt,  the  bailiff  of  Haymore,  stood  there. 

"Could  I  speak  to  your  reverence  a  moment,  sir?"  he 
inquired. 

"  Certainly.  Come  in,"  replied  Mr.  Campbell,  and  led  the 
visitor  into  the  study. 

"Well,  minister,"  said  the  bailiff,  as  soon  as  they  were 
both  seated  at  the  writing-table  near  the  window,  "it  has 
come  at  last.  I  have  got  a  dispatch  from  the  squire,  an 
nouncing  his  immediate  arrival  with  his  bride  and  his 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  163 

brother-in-law,  though  not  with  the  expected  party  of 
friends." 

The  curate  started,  and  then  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead,  as  if  to  clear  away  a  cloud  of  perplexity.  Had 
not  Longman  told  him  that  the  squire  and  his  ladv  had 
arrived  the  night  before?  And  he  could  not  have  made  a 
mistake,  because  he  came  with  them,  and  left  them  at  the 
Hall.  And  now  the  bailiff  tells  him  that  he  has  received  a 
dispatch,  announcing  the  immediate  arrival  of  the  squire 
and  his  party.  What  did  all  this  mean  ?  At  length  an  ex 
planation  suggested  itself,  and  he  spoke  upon  it. 

"Has  not  that  dispatch  been  delayed ?  Should  it  not  have 
come  yesterday?"  lie  inquired. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir !  It  was  dated  this  morning,  and  came  an 
hour  ago !"  exclaimed  the  bailiff. 

"Have  you  got  it  about  you?  Would  you  mind  letting 
me  see  it?" 

"Here  it  is,  sir." 

The  bailiff  drew  the  paper  from  his  vest  pocket  and  put 
it  into  the  hands  of  the  minister. 

Mr.  Campbell  opened  it  and  read: 

"LAXGHAM'S  HOTEL,  LONDON, 

"December  15,  18 — . 

"To  MR.  JOHN  PROWT,  Haymore  Lodge,  Haymore, 
Yorkshire  :  I  shall  arrive  with  my  wife  and  brother-in-law, 
the  Rev.  Cassius  Leegh,  by  the  one-thirty  train,  at  Chux- 
ton.  Send  one  comfortable  carriage  to  meet  us. 

"RANDOLPH  H.  HAY." 

Mr.  Campbell  returned  the  slip  of  paper  to  the  bailiff  and 
fell  into  silence.  He  could  make  nothing  of  it.  He  was 
dumfounded. 

"So  you  see  it  is  all  right,  sir,"  said  the  bailiff.  "T  shall 
send  the  open  barouche,  as  the  day  is  so  fine,  and  with  two 
footmen,  besides  the  coachman.  I  suppose  they  will  enter 
this  town  about  half-past  two  o'clock." 

"Well,"  said  the  dazed  curate,  "what  do  you  wish  me 
to  do?" 

"If  you  would  give  orders  to  the  bell  ringers,  sir,  to  be  at 
their  post,  and  also  have  the  parish  school  children  drawn 
up  each  side  the  road  leading  to  the  park  gate " 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

12  rather  an  unfavorable   season— December— f or 

to  be  T*rsd:n£  cTitdoor?.""  suggested  the  nmnster. 
•Of  course,  sir,  the  kids  cant  wear  the  white  frocks  and 

-1     ~  -  •  .    -  f     _  —  7      ".  :_•       ~    _          -!  77  f     ."71    1  It  17     1  1 7  7    77.1  1  1  f .    1  - 

7"__-:     .-'".'.."-.    ".   :.-:  :" .:      7     :.:'.-  :.j-  :  "  •  v.:  :':.-.-  :;-  -  .  .7 
'       :  •     :~:-7-    ^    — .:.: -7  "  i  :   r?.i    ":'  :-:      ;.7i-7>  7-71  i  7i~  "  "-. 

-  -  - 

7 ...   ..   1.7  ;  •>:  if:  :  i    :TI.  :i  : 

:  :Y^r' 

I    '     i   :  -:;;:-  i:  ~_..~ 

wfll  yon  kindly  see  to  it,  sir,  that  they  are  drawn 
in  proper  array,  to  sing  their  songs  of  welcome  and  throw 

"    7   ::   :ii   ":  r  ii.  T  li: :" 

"¥lieie  wffl  ftej  get  flower*  at  this  seran  of  fte  year?" 
"Oh!— a— from  the  nuusmaUiiies  of  Ac  Hall,  if  from 
no  other  place,    I  wffl  see  that  they  are  sent  oier  to  the 
I  think,  abo,  that  man}  of  the 


to  peri^i  under 

:  -  v-  " 

i-    -  .i.--  :     _   -r-f:  >.TiTi    :: 

•~     _*~L    »-        ""_  2 

aritnow.    And  it  mi^it  he  wefl  f or  yon  to 

•n^—         .         .        ,      f  -  -          -  _ 

--   -  -: .:--  •-.:   -i-   r^  " 
~,    ,:     _,   i:i_f 

0And  DOW.  Mr.  Prowt  I  win  to  say  tins  to  yon— with 

"-"  -     : .    7.  \  ~  -~    '  -  -    .~ .  _  ••    "          :  7        "  "  J  7  ~-    ~       '-  L        "••'-  "7.     - .  ~.       "  -      7    * 

gret  that  I  maA  disappoint  TOW— that  I  cannot  and  will 

:.'~   \  .:~  '. '  -     :.'::/:.   '•     ;  ::     •-  7^:71^.   :r  v.-r  *i:.-7.   :i.il- 

7     ^     "  .  '      _  -        '    '-.  1"    -   71T-T    ~  7.  •  TTH-rL":    ~  "     '>:    ':.'---_    '^L    L  .—- 

-'. :     :  "A.-  .:    :  T.  -~i*  ":.  :i.  :i.:  ~:.;:T:  11  ir  TJT.  TT^."    i-:*-rr  ".'. 

i:.     -,.:  :^T  I77_i7i_r.rr.  i_. 
-r 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE:  165 

The  bailiff  stared  in  silence,  too  astonished  to  speak  for 
a  minute.  Then  he  demanded : 

"But  why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  reverend  sir,  would 
you  put  such  an  affront  upon  the  new  squire  and  his  bride  ?r> 

"I  put  no  affront  upon  them.  I  simply  decline  to  show 
them  any  honor  whatever,  or  to  allow  any  one  under  my 
authority  to  do  so,"  emphatically  responded  the  minister. 

"But  this  is  most  amazing,  sir.  Why,  if  you  please,  do 
you  refuse  to  honor  them?" 

"Because  I  cannot  and  must  not" 

"Yet,  about  three  months  ago,  when  there  was  first  a  talk 
of  the  new  squire  bringing  home  his  bride,  there  was  no  one 
more  interested  than  yourself." 

-  at  is  true.  But  since  that  date  circumstances  have 
come  to  my  knowledge  that  have  changed  all  my  views,  and 
must  change  all  my  actions,  toward  the  incoming  squire  and 
his — lady ;  circumstances  that  quite  justify  me  in  my  pres 
ent  course  of  conduct.'" 

"May  I  ask  your  reverence  what  those  circumstances 

"Xot  yet,  Prcwt.  I  cannot  tell  you.  To-morrow  or  next 
day  the  whole  parish  may  know." 

"Well.  I  am  perplexed!  But.  reverend  sir.  I  must  at  least 
do  my  duty,  and  go  over  to  the  Hall  to  give  directions  there 
for  the  proper  reception  of  the  new  squire,  and  send  the 
carriage  and  servants  to  meet  them.  It  is  nine  o'clock  now,, 
and  they  really  ought  to  be  off.  I  hope  you  do  not  blame 
me.  sir.  for  doing  my  part." 

rtainly  not.     You  must  do  your  duty  by  your  em 
ployer."  said  Mr.  Campbell  kindly. " 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  said  the" bailiff,  taking  up  his  hat 
to  go. 

"Good-day.  Mr.  Prowt."  replied  the  minis: 

Even  when  the  visitor  was  gone  and  the  curate  was  alone 
he  could  not  return  to  his  manuscript  sermon.  It  was  im 
possible  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  subject, 

"A:i,  well,"  he  said  at  la--.  -  '.  '.. .-.--.  :  .ke  out  one 
of  my  old  Madge  sermons  for  Sunday  morning.  It  will  be 
new  to  these  parishioners  at  least."  And  then  he  closed  his 
desk,  sat  back  in  his  armchair  and  gave  himself  up  to  the 
problem  that  was  disturbing  his  mind. 


166  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

The  dispatch  from  the  squire  lay  on  the  table  before  him. 

The  bailiff  had  inadvertently  left  it  behind  him. 

Mr.  Campbell  took  it  up,  again  read  it  carefully,  and 
again  passed  his  hand  slowly  over  his  forehead  to  clear  away 
the  thick  clould  of  confusion. 

The  situation  seemed  inexplicable. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  this  dispatch,  dated  this  morn 
ing,  signed  Randolph  Hay,  and  announcing  the  arrival  of 
the  squire  and  of  his  wife  and  brother-in-law  on  this  day, 
was  a  perfectly  genuine  article  and  a  very  hard  fact. 

There  was  no  doubt,  either,  that  another  Randolph  Hay, 
with  his  wife  and  friends,  had  arrived  at  Haymore  Hall  in 
company  with  the  indubitable  traveling  companion  and  eye 
witness  who  had  reported  the  fact  to  the  minister's  family. 

Now  what  on  earth  did  it  all  mean? 

One  Squire  of  Haymore  and  his  wife  at  Haymore  Hall, 
and  another  Squire  of  Haymore  and  his — lady  on  their  way 
there ! 

Would  the  two  parties  meet  to-day,  and  if  so,  what  then  ? 

The  only  possible  theory  of  the  situation,  as  it  presented 
itself  to  the  minister's  mind,  was  this,  upon  which  he  finally 
settled — that  the  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  who  had  ar 
rived  on  the  preceding  evening  and  were  now  at  the  Hall 
were  the  real  lord  and  lady  of  the  manor,  and  that  the  so- 
called  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  who  were  expected  to  ar 
rive  to-day  were  the  f  raudlent  claimants  whom  he  had  taken 
them  to  be. 

He  had  not  breathed  a  syllable  of  the  first  arrival  to  the 
bailiff,  preferring  to  keep  "the  matter  to  himself  until  he 
should  see  Samson  Longman,  who  had  walked  over  that 
morning  to  Haymore  Hall,  but  would  return  to  the  rectory 
by  midday. 

But  the  backwoodsman  came  in  a  little  sooner  than  he 
had  been  expected.  He  came  at  once  to  the  study  door  and 
rapped. 

Mr.  Campbell  bade  him  enter. 

Longman's  face  was  radiant  with  merriment,  and  in  his 
hand  he  carried  a  letter,  which  he  fondled  playfully. 

"Well,  Longman,  you  have  been  to  see  your  friends  at 
the  Hall  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Please  sit  down  and  teli  me  all  about  it." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  167 

Longman  settled  himself  in  the  largest  leather  chair,  put 
his  fur  cap  down  on  the  floor  beside  him  and  fondled  his 
letter. 

"You  found  the  young  squire  and  his  wife  quite  well 
after  their  journey?" 

"Quite  well,  sir.  And  also  very  much  delighted  with 
their  new  home,  which  they  saw  for  the  first  time  by  day 
light  this  morning." 

"Longman.,  you  are  sparkling  all  over  with  repressed 
amusement.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Anticipation  of  an  entertainment  at  the  Hall  to-day, 
sir." 

"I  think  I  understand.  Do  your  friends  know  that  there 
is  another  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  and  his — lady  expected  at  the 
Hall  to-day  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  giant,  now  bursting  into  a 
storm  of  laughter,  which  had  to  have  its  full  vent  before  he 
could  go  on  with  his  words.  "Yes,  sir.  The  bailiff  came 
there  an  hour  ago,  full  of  importance,  to  announce  the  fact. 
He  was  somewhat  amazed  to  find  the  young  squire  and  his 
wife  already  in  possession.  But  they  are  quite  ready  for 
the  reception  of  the  newcomers,  sir,  and  that  is  the  enter 
tainment  I  anticipate.  Here,  sir,  is  a  letter  the  young 
squire  has  intrusted  to  me  to  hand  you." 

The  minister  took  the  missive,  broke  the  seal  and  read : 

"HAYMORE  HALL,  December  15,  18 — . 

"To  THE  REV.  JAMES  CAMPBELL,  Reverend  and  Dear 
Sir:  Although  I  have  not  the  honor  of  your  personal  ac 
quaintance,  yet  I  have  heard  enough  of  you  to  engage  my 
sympathies  and  compel  my  respect.  Therefore,  I  hope  that 
you  will  forgive  me  for  asking  you  to  do  me  the  favor  to 
come  this  evening  to  the  Hall  to  discuss  with  me  the  sub- 
jest  of  the  living  of  Haymore,  which  it  is  my  privilege  and 
pleasure  to  offer  you,  in  the  hope  that  you  may  do  me  the 
honor  to  accept  it.  May  I  presume,  also,  to  ask  you  to  waive 
ceremony,  and  bring  your  wife  and  daughter  with  you  on 
this  occasion  ?  1  have  a  special  reason  for  this  request, 
which,  when  you  shall  have  heard  from  me,  you  will  find 
to  be  perfectly  satisfactory. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  reverend  sir, 

"Very  respectfully  yours,  RANDOLPH  HAY." 


168  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

The  curate  rushed  out  of  the  study  and  into  the  room 
where  his  wife  sat  sewing  in  an  avalanche  of  infirm  linen 
and  exclaimed : 

"  Hetty,  we  need  never  leave  the  rectory !  I  have  got  the 
Haymore  living !  Read  that,  and  thank  the  Lord !" 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

A  MEMORABLE  JOURNEY 

YES,  it  was  true !  Randolph  Hay,  the  rightful  heir,  was 
in  full  possession  of  Haymore.  He  had  also  entered  into 
his  estate  with  much  more  ease  than  could  have  been  an 
ticipated  either  by  himself,  his  friends  or  his  lawyers. 

To  explain  how  this  happened,  a  brief  summary  of  events 
is  necessary. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Ran  Hay,  with  his  young 
bride,  Judy,  and  a  small  party  of  friends,  sailed  on  Novem 
ber  the  29th  from  New  York  by  the  steamship  Boadicea, 
bound  for  Liverpool. 

Ran,  Judy  and  Will  Walling  had  staterooms  in  the  first 
cabin ;  Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  had  berths  in  the  second 
cabin. 

This  arrangement,  on  the  part  of  the  three  last  men 
tioned,  was  much  against  the  will  of  Ran,  who  would  gladly 
have  provided  his  brother-in-law  and  his  two  friends  with 
the  best  accommodations  the  ship  afforded,  but  that  frorn 
very  delicacy  of  feeling  toward  them  he  could  not  offer  to 
do  so.  Besides,  he  knew  that  all  three  of  these  men  had 
money  enough  to  pay  for  a  first-class  passage  each,  had 
they  desired  it,  but  that  for  prudential  reasons  Dandy  and 
Longman  did  not  choose  to  squander  their  savings  in  that 
needless  manner,  and  that  Mike  cast  in  his  lot  with  his  two 
friends ;  and  so  their  little  party  voyaged  in  the  plain  but 
clean  and  wholesome  second  cabin. 

There  could  not,  however,  be  much  communication  be 
tween  the  three  in  the  first  cabin  and  the  three  in  the  second, 
though  they  met  occasionally  on  the  common  ground  of  the 
forward  deck. 

Here  Ran  had  long  talks  with  his  friends,  and  learned 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  169 

much  more  of  the  past  history  of  Dandy  and  Longman  than 
he  had  ever  known  before. 

Here,  Judy,  wrapped  from  head  to  heel  hi  her  heavy 
fur  cloak,  would  often  join  them,  for  the  weather  continued 
fine.  "Wonderful ! — just  wonderful  I"  was  the  verdict  of  all 
the  ship's  passengers;  the  oldest  "salt"  declaring  that  never, 
at  this  season  of  the  year,  had  he  known  such  weather  in 
crossing  the  Atlantic. 

Not  one  of  our  party  suffered  from  seasickness.  The  only 
effect  the  voyage  seemed  to  have  upon  them  was  an  increase 
of  health,  vigor  and  appetite. 

Their  ship  was  rather  a  slow  one,  that  was  all. 

It  was  a  splendid  winter  morning  about  the  seventh  day 
out.  The  sky,  of  a  clear,  deep  blue,  without  a  single  cloud, 
and  on  fire  with  a  sun  too  dazzling  to  be  seen,  overhung  a 
sea  whose  waves  were  like  molten  sapphires.  The  ship,  with 
all  her  snowy  sails  spread  and  filled,  was  flying  on  before  a 
fresh,  fair  wind. 

On  the  forward  deck,  grouped  together,  were  Ean,  Judy, 
Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman.  The  hunter  had  been  telling 
his  story  for  the  first  time  to  Ean  and  Judy. 

"And  so  you  are  from  Chuxton!  Is  not  that  a  strange 
coincidence?  Haymore  Hall  and  hamlet  is  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Chuxton,  I  think,"  said  Ran. 

"About  ten  miles  off,  sir.  Chuxton  is  the  nearest  market 
town  and  railway  station  to  Haymore,"  replied  Longman. 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,  as  you  say  you  would  never  have 
left  your  native  country  if  you  could  have  obtained  employ 
ment  to  suit  you "  Ean  said  in  a  modest  and  hesitating 

way. 

"Among  guns  and  game,"  Longman  interjected  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Exactly — 'among  guns  and  game9 — I  do  earnestly  hope 
that  it  may  be  in  my  way  to  suit  you.  Longman.  I  know 
nearly  nothing  of  my  patrimonial  estate,  but  I  have  heard 
my  father  say  that  there  was  no  such  place  for  game  in  all 
the  North  Eiding.  I  hope  and  trust  and  pray/'  added  Ean, 
with  boyish  earnestness,  "that  I  may  be  able  to  make  you 
head  gamekeeper  at  Haymore  without  injustice  to  others." 

"I  would  not  take  another  man's  place  to  his  hurt,  sir," 
said  the  hunter. 

"I  know  that,  good  fellow.    Nor  would  I  offer  you  such 


170  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

an  effront.  But  it  will  hurt  no  one  lo  make  you  an  extra 
keeper  at  a  good  salary." 

''There,  now,  Longman  !  D'ye  moind  that?  Isn't  it  jist 
what  I  was  afther  tilling  ye!"  exclaimed  Mike.  "Didn't  I 
say  if  Ran,  or  bigging  his  honor's  pardin,  Misther  Hay, 
hadn't  a  place  riddy  made  to  shute  ye,  he'd  crayate  one? 
D'ye  moind?" 

"Something  like  that,"  replied  the  hunter,  laughing. 
"But  I  really  do  not  wish  Mr.  Hay  to  make  a  place  for 
me." 

"Friends,"  said  the  young  squire,  "we  will  leave  that 
question  until  we  get  to  Haymore.  But  in  the  meantime 
don't  distress  me  by  calling  me  Mr. — anybody !  I  am  Ran 
to  all  my  old  companions." 

"Ouns !  But  whatever  would  the  gintry  round  Haymore 
be  thinking  to  hear  the  squire  called  be  his  Christian  name, 
with  divil  a  handle  to  it,  be  the  loikes  av  us?"  demanded 
Mike,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  do  not  care  what  they  think !  They  will  soon  know 
that  I  and  my  Judy  and  my  friends  came  from  the  mining 
camps  in  the  backwoods  and  mountains  of  North  America, 
and  that  they  must  not  expect  more  polish  from  us  or  more 
politeness  than  neighborly,  loving  kindness  inspires.  And 
now,  Dandy,  old  friend,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  when  we 
all  reach  England?"  inquired  Ran  of  the  old  man,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  left  out,  or  to  have  withdrawn  himself 
from  the  conversation. 

"Indeed,  then,  I  don't  know,  sir!  I  hevn't  a  living  soul 
belonging  to  me  in  the  old  country  except  it  is  my  brother's 
orphan  child,  my  niece,  Julia  Quin.  When  I  left  England 
she  was  a  good-looking  young  wench,  some  seventeen  years 
old,  and  was  at  service  in  a  parson's  family  down  in  Hantz. 
She'll  be  married  by  this  time,  I  reckon,  with  no  end  of 
kids !  But,  anyways,  I'll  look  her  up,  sir,  if  she  is  to  be 
found." 

"Have  you  ever  heard  from  her  since  you  left  England?" 
inquired  Judy,  breaking  into  the  conversation  the  first  time 
for  the  last  half  hour,  and  interested  the  moment  another 
woman  was  brought  upon  the  tapis. 

"Lor',  no,  Miss  Judy! — which  I  beg  your  pardon.  Mis 
tress  Hay;  but  I  do  be  forgetting  sometimes.  Neither  me 
nor  mine  was  ever  any  great  hand  at  letter  writing.  And 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  171 

she  was  doing  well  at  the  vicarage,  I  knowed.  And  I  was 
wandering  about,  seeking  of  my  fortin,  which  I  never  yet 
found,  though  I  might  have  found  it  the  very  next  blow  of 
my  pick,  for  aught  I  know,  if  I  had  had  the  parsaverance 
to  stay,  which  I  couldn't  have  after  the  boys  here  left,  and 
so  for  twenty  years  I  haven't  heard  a  word  of  my  niece.  She 
may  be  dead,  poor  wench;  for  death  is  no  respecter  of 
persons,  though  she  was  a  fine,  strapping,  strong  wench, 
too.  Yes,  that  is  so.7' 

"I  hope  not.  I  hope  she  is  alive  and  well  for  your  sake. 
Where  did  you  say  you  left  her  at  service  ?" 

"At  the  vicarage,  ma'am,  in  my  native  town,  ma'am." 

"And  what  town  was  that?" 

"Medge,  ma'am.  In  Hantz,  on  the  south  coast,  where  I 
was  born  and  riz." 

Judy  had  started  at  the  first  mention  of  Medge.  Now 
she  hastily  inquired : 

"What  was  the  name  of  the  vicar?" 

"One  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  ma'am;  the  Rev.  Mr.  James 
Campbell.  He  came  from  Scotland,  horridonally ;  but  set 
tled  into  the  south  coast  of  England.  Yes,  that  was  so." 

By  this  time  Ran  was  listening  with  the  deepest  interest 
to  the  words  of  old  Dandy,  but  leaving  Judy  to  sustain  the 
conversation. 

"Why,  Mr.  Quin,  we  know  who  he  is,"  she  gayly  ex 
claimed. 

"Do  you  know,  ma'am ?  Indeed,  and  how,  if  you  please?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Quin,  it  is  too  long  a  story  to  tell  you  how 
now;  and  besides,  it  concerns  other  people  that  I  would 
rather  not  talk  about ;  but  this  I  can  tell  you,  that  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Campbell  is  not  now  at  Medge,  but " 

"Where  is  he  then,  ma'am,  if  you  please  to  tell  me  that 
I  may  know  where  to  seek  for  him  ?  For  I  shall  go  to  him 
first  of  all  to  ask  after  my  niece." 

"He  is  quite  at  the  opposite  end  of  England.  He  is  at 
Ilaymore  Rectory,  where  we  are  all  going." 

"The  Lord  be  good  to  us  !  Is  that  so  ?"  exclaimed  Dandy 
joyfully. 

"Indeed,  yes!  And  now,  Mr.  Quin,  if  you  wish  to  hear 
news  of  your  niece,  Julia,  you  will  have  to  go  all  the  way 
to  Haymore  with  us.  And  I  am  so  glad  that  we  will  not  be 


172  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

separated.  It  will  be  so  pleasant  for  us  all  to  go  together 
to  Haymore." 

"Yes,  Dandy,  old  boy,  and  you  must  stop  with  me,  you 
know,  until  you  find  your  niece,"  added  Ran. 

"And  will  I  see  the  Rev.  Mr.  James  Campbell  himself?" 
inquired  Quin  in  some  doubt. 

"  Of  course  you  will.  And  as  servants  don't  change  places 
as  often  in  the  old  country  as  they  do  in  the  new,  it  is  more 
than  likely  you  will  find  your  niece  at  the  rectory,  unless  she 
is  married,"  said  Judy. 

"Or — dead,  poor  wench!"  added  Dandy. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  She's  not  dead  !  I'm  certain  of  it,"  ex- 
tlaimcd  Judy,  with  good-natured  but  inexcusable  presump 
tion. 

•"I'll  take  that  for  a  prophecy,  anyways,  ma'am,  and  be 
lieve  into  it.  Yes,  that  is  so." 

"And  you  will  come  with  us  to  Haymore,  Dandy?"  said 
Ran. 

"I  thank  you  kindly,  sir;  I  will." 

"Pray,  Mr.  Quin,  stop  calling  me  sir.  You  are  an  old 
man  and  I  am  a  young  one,  almost  a  boy,  and  it  is  not  fit 
ting  for  you  to  call  me  sir." 

"Mr.  Play,  I  was  brought  up  into  the  Church  of  England, 
and  teached  to  be  content  with  that  station  of  life  into 
which  the  Lord  had  called  me;  likewise,  to  respect  my 
pastors  and  masters,  and  to  honor  my  sooperioors.  And 
twenty  years'  wandering  among  the  mines  haven't  made  me 
forget  them  airly  lessons,  nor  yet  my  good  manners,  sir," 
said  Dandy,  with  a  ceremonious  bow,  as  he  lifted  his  fur 
cap  from  his  bald  head. 

"Judy,  can't  you  bring  them  to  reason?"  inquired  Ran, 
with  a  laugh. 

"Sorrow  a  worrd  they'll  listen  to  meself!"  exclaimed 
Judy,  backsliding  into  dialect,  as  she  frequently  did. 

"Well,  do  as  you  please,  or  I'll  make  you !"  laughed  Ran. 

And  from  that  hour  it  was  understood  that  the  whole 
party  should  keep  together  until  they  should  reach  Hay- 
more,  instead  of  separating  at  Liverpool,  as  had  been  first 
intended. 

The  weather  continued  very  fine,  though  very  cold. 

On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  they  reached  Queenstown. 

There  Mr.  Walling  went  on  shore  and  telegraphed  to  his 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  173 

London  correspondents,  Messrs.  Sothoron  &  Drummond, 
Attorneys-at-Law,  Lincoln's  Inns  Fields,  that  his  client,  Mr. 
Randolph  Hay,  and  himself  would  be  in  London  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  twelfth. 

The  run  from  Queenstown  to  Liverpool  was  as  fine  as  any 
preceding  part  of  the  voyage. 

They  reached  port  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  morning 
on  the  twelfth. 

Without  lingering  longer  in  the  city  than  was  necessary 
to  get  their  baggage  through  the  customhouse  and  fortify 
themselves  with  a  substantial  early  breakfast  at  the 
"  Queen's,"  they  took  the  first  mail  train  for  London,  where 
they  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

Mr.  Will  Walling,  an  experienced  traveler,  who  had  been 
in  London  several  times  before,  became  the  guide  of  the 
party,  and  took  them  from  Euston  Square  down  to  Morley's 
Hotel,  Trafalgar  Square,  where  they  secured  a  comfortable 
suite  of  apartments  on  the  second  floor  front. 

Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  went  to  find  cheaper  quarters. 
Again  Ran  would  gladly  have  entertained  them  at  Morley's, 
but  could  not  offer  to  do  so  without  affronting  their  spirit 
of  independence. 

Even  Mike,  to  whom  Ran  ventured  an  invitation,  declined 
his  brother-in-law's  hospitality,  and  cast  in  his  lot  with  his 
two  old  mining  friends.  But  he  promised  to  look  in  again 
in  the  evening  to  let  Ran  and  Judy  know  where  he  and  his 
companions  had  found  quarters. 

After  a  hasty  dinner  in  the  private  parlor  of  the  Hays, 
Mr.  Will  Walling  left  the  young  pair  still  over  their  dessert 
and  went  out  and  called  a  cab  and  drove  to  Lincoln's  Inns 
Fields  to  call  on  Messrs.  Sothoron  &  Drummond. 

They  had  been  the  solicitors  of  the  Hays,  of  Havmore, 
for  many  years,  and  were,  of  course,  deeply  interested  in 
all  that  concerned  them. 

Much  correspondence  had  already  passed  between  the 
London  and  New  York  firms,  bearing  en  the  recent  appear 
ance  of  the  undoubted  lawful  heir  of  Havmore  in  opposition 
to  the  fraudulent  pretender,  so  that  there  was  alreadv  a 
perfect  understanding  of  the  case  established  between  them. 

It  was  now  a  little  after  business  hours,  but  Mr.  Will 
Walling  felt  sure  that,  having  received  his  dispatch  an- 


174  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

nouncing  his  visit,  one  or  both  members  of  the  firm  would 
remain  at  their  office  to  receive  him. 

In  fact,  he  found  both  gentlemen  there.  The  case  was 
considered  much  too  important  to  admit  of  neglect  or  in 
difference,  and  being  after  office  hours,  they  were  quite  at 
leisure  to  give  their  whole  attention  to  the  business  in  hand. 

Mr.  Walling  spent  four  hours  with  Messrs.  Sothoron  & 
Drummond,,  and  together  the  three  gentlemen  went  through 
the  mass  of  documents,  all  together  constituting  indisput 
able,  immovable  proof  of  Randolph  Hay's  identity  as  the  * 
only  lawful  heir  of  Haymore. 

I  will  not  weary  my  reader  with  any  of  the  lawyers'  talk> 
but  hasten  on  to  its  results. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  the  three  gentlemen,  hav 
ing  brought  their  interview  to  an  end,  left  the  office  together 
and  separated,  to  seek  their  several  destinations — Sothoron 
to  his  home  on  Clapham  Common,  Drummond  to  his  club 
on  Regent  Street,  and  Walling  to  his  friends  at  Morley's. 

Mr.  Will  found  Ran  and  Judy  seated  at  the  front  window 
of  their  parlor,  in  which  the  gas  had  been  turned  down  low 
to  enable  them  to  see  out  into  the  street,  for  they  were 
gazing  down  on  the  panorama  of  the  night  scene  on  Trafal 
gar  Square. 

"Well !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Will,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
flung  his  hat  across  the  floor  and  dropped  into  a  large  easy- 
chair  near  the  two  young  people,  "are  you  ready  to  set  out 
for  Yorkshire  and  Haymore  by  the  first  mail  train  to 
morrow  morning?" 

"What  do  yon  mean?"  inquired  Ran,  looking  around, 
rather  startled  by  the  abrupt  entrance  and  action  of  his 
lawyer,  while  Judy  also  wheeled  her  chair  and  raised  her 
eyes  inquiringly  to  the  first  speaker. 

"Just  what  T  asked.  Are  you  ready  to  start  for  Hay- 
more  Hall  by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning?"  repeated 
Mr.  Will. 

"What  is  the  use  of  your  asking  that,  Walling,  when 
you  know  there  is  ever  such  a  law  fight  to  go  through  first. 
And  even  after  I  have  won  my  suit,  as  of  course  I  shall  win 
it,  there  must  be  writs  of  ejectment,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what  all,  before  we  can  get  that  villain  out  of  my  house; 
for  'possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law/  you  know,  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  175 

you  may  depend  he  will  contest  the  tenth  point  to  the  bitter 
end,"  said  Ran. 

"Not  at  all!"  heartily  exclaimed  Will  Walling;  "there 
will  be  no  fight.  The  fellow  will  not  light;  he'll  fly.  And 
though  'possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law/  he  has  never 
had  possession.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  your  words  are  more  incomprehensible  than 
ever.  I  do  not  understand  them  in  the  least,"  replied  Ean. 

"Nor  do  I,"  added  Judy. 

"Well,  then,  listen,  both  of  you.  I  have  been  three  or 
four  or  more  hours  closeted  with  Sothoron  &  Drummond." 

"Yes." 

"And  we  have  been  over,  together,  all  the  documentary 
proofs  of  your  identity  as  Randolph  Hay,  the  only  lawful 
heir  of  Haymore." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  every  document  connected  with  the  case  has  your 
name,  that  is,  Randolph  Hay,  as  the  heir  and  now  the  owner 
of  Haymore." 

"Of  course." 

"'And  you,  and  you  only,  are  Randolph  Hay." 

"Undoubtedly.  But  there  is  another  who  has  taken  my 
name  and  estates." 

"He  has  taken  your  name  and  stolen  and  squandered  a 
good  deal  of  your  money  during  the  last  few  months ;  there 
is  no  doubt  about  that.  Nor  will  you  ever  get  a  penny  of 
that  lost  money  back;  there  is  no  hope  of  that.  These 
moneys  he  has  obtained  by  fraud  from  your  bailiff,  John 
Prowt,  of  Haymore,  and  from  your  family  solicitors,  Sotho 
ron  &  Drummond,  at  Lincoln's  Inns  Fields.  But,  my  dear 
sir,  for  all  that,  he  has  never  been  in  possession  of  your 
estate." 

"Why  not,  when " 

"But  he  is  not  Randolph  Hay,  in  whose  name  all  the 
documents  are  made  out." 

"But  he  is  at  Haymore  Hall  now.  And  it  will  require  a 
legal  process  to  get  him  out,  for  he  will  fight  every  inch  of 
the  ground." 

"Not  at  all !  He  is  not  at  Haymore  Hall,  nor  has  he  ever 
been  there.  His  fraudulent  presence  is  not  known  there.  If 
he  were  there  now,  or  ever  had  been  there,  or  if  his  person 
were  known  there  under  his  stolen  name  of  Randolph  Hay, 


176  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

then,  I  grant  you,  in  that  case  we  might  have  to  meet  some 
trouble  and  confusion,  yet  not  much.  And  as  it  is,  we  shall 
have  no  trouble  at  all." 

"But  this  is  strange.  How  is  it  that  he  has  never  been 
to  Haymore?"  inquired  Ean. 

"Because,  it  seems,  he  prefers  to  squander  the  revenues 
of  the  estate  in  Paris.  But  let  me  tell  you  what  I  have 
this  afternoon  learned  of  the  fellow  from  Messrs.  Sothoron 
&  Drummond." 

"Yes,  pray  do,"  said  Judy. 

"It  seems,  then,  that  when  he  first  brought  his — lady  over 
here,  he  intended  to  go  to  Haymore,  and  even  had  grand 
preparations  made  there  for  their  reception ;  but  from  some 
caprice,  he  changed  his  mind  and  went  to  Paris,  where  he 
has  been  with  his — lady  ever  since,  squandering  money  just 
as  if  he  knew  it  did  not  belong  to  him,  and  deferring  his 
return  from  time  to  time,  and  drawing  large  sums  from — 
your  bankers." 

"From  what  I  know  of  Gentleman  Gen°,  I  should  think  it 
hard  to  draw  him  from  the  saloons  of  Paris  to  the  seclusion 
of  a  Yorkshire  country  house,"  said  Ean. 

"Yes;  but  now  it  seems  he  is  really  coming  with  a  party 
of  friends  to  spend  Christmas  at  Haymore  Hall.  He  has 
sent  down  orders  for  the  house  to  be  prepared  to  receive 
himself  and — lady  and  guests  by  the  fifteenth.  Now  then, 
the  servants  at  the  Hall  are  preparing  to  receive  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Randolph  Hay,  whom  they  have  never  seen.  Now 
you  and  your  wife  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay." 

"Well,  what  do  you  advise?"  inquired  Ran. 

"Why,  man  alive,  your  course  is  as  plain  as  daylight. 
You  and  you?  wife  take  the  first  train  to-morrow  and  speed 
to  Yorkshire  and  to  Haymore  Hall,  where  you  will  arrive 
early  in  the  evening,  where  you  will,  no  doubt,  find  every 
thing  ready  for  you  and  be  joyfully  received  by  your  serv 
ants.  To  be  sure,  you  will  arrive  rather  earlier  than  you 
were  expected;  but  that  will  not  matter  much,  especially  as 
it  will  give  you  time  to  get  well  rested  before  you  will  be 
called  upon  to  receive  Gentleman  Geff  and  his  distinguished 
party." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  the  most  delicious  fun!"  exclaimed 
Judy,  clapping  her  hands  with  glee;  "and  we  will  have, 
besides  Ran  and  myself,  Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  all 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  177 

drawn  up  in  a  line  to  welcome  him.     He  will  think  all 
Grizzly  Gulch  has  come  to  Haymore  Hall." 
"For  his  guilty  soul  it  would  seem 

"  'Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane/  " 

said  Will  Walling. 

"There  would  be  an  awful  row,"  exclaimed  Ran. 

"Not  at  all.  There  would  be  a  surprise,  a  panic  and  a 
flight.  That  is,  if  you  let  the  villain  go.  I  am  not  sure 
that  you  ought  not  to  have  a  warrant  and  an  officer  ready 
to  arrest  him.  Or  rather,  I  am  sure  that  you  ought." 

"I  would  rather  not,  if  he  will  leave  quietly,"  said  Ran. 

"But  you  must  make  no  terms  with  a  criminal.  That 
would  be  ''compounding  a  felony/  a  serious  offense  against 
English  law." 

"Well,  is  it  settled?  Shall  we  go  to-morrow  morning?" 
inquired  Judy. 

"Yes,  dear;  certainly,"  replied  Ran. 

"And  I  will  go  down  to  the  office  and  find  a  Bradshaw 
and  see  about  our  train,"  said  Mr.  Will,  picking  up  his  hat 
and  hurrying  out  of  the  room. 

He  had  scarcely  disappeared  when  the  door  opened  and 
Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  entered  the  parlor. 

Judy  ran  forward  to  welcome  them,  while  Ran  turned 
up  the  gas. 

"We  have  been  sitting  in  the  dark  to  watch  the  scene  in 
the  square  below,"  Judy  explained. 

"Well,  boys,  have  you  found  comfortable  quarters?"  in 
quired  Ran,  as  soon  as  they  were  all  seated. 

"Illigant;  and  chape  enough,  too,  be  the  same  token,  close 
by  in  the  Strand;  a  very  ginteel,  dooble-bidded  biclroom. 
Longman,  being  av  a  giant  fit  for  a  circus,  do  hev  one  bid 
all  to  himsilf.  And  Dandy  and  me,  being  av  little  fellows, 
do  have  the  ithir  to  oursilves,"  Mike  explained. 

While  they  were  still  talking  Mr.  Will  Walling  returned 
to  the  room  with  a  Bradshaw  in  his  hand.  He  greeted  the 
three  visitors  pleasantly,  dropped  into  a  chair  and  said: 

"Well,  there  is  a  train  that  leaves  Euston  Square  Station 
at  six  in  the  morning  and  reaches  Chuxton  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  After  that  there  is  no  other  parliamentary  train 
until  twelve  noon,  which  would  make  it  nine  in  the  evening 


178  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE9 

when  it  stops  at  Chuxton,  and  would  be  too  late  to  go  on 
to  Haymore  the  same  night." 

"  Oh,  then,  we  will  leave  by  the  earlier  train,  if  Judy  has 
no  objection/'  said  Ean. 

"I?  Why,  I  never  minded  getting  up  early !"  exclaimed 
Judy. 

"What  do  you  say,  boys?"  inquired  Ean. 

"The  sooner  the  better  for  us,  sir,"  replied  Dandy,  speak 
ing  for  the  rest,  who  promptly  assented. 

And  then,  as  the  hour  was  late,  the  visitors  bade  good 
night,  and  the  party  left  behind  separated  and  retired  to 
rest,  to  be  ready  for  their  early  rising. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT   IEAYMORE    HALL 

THE  whole  party  were  up  in  the  double  darkness  of  a 
London  winter  morning  before  sunrise.  They  dressed  and 
breakfasted  by  gaslight,  and  then  entered  a  large  carriage 
and  drove  to  Euston  Square  Eailway  Station,  where  they 
were  met  by  Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman. 

"Had  you  not  better  telegraph  to  your  housekeeper  be 
fore  we  start  to  let  her  know  that  we  shall  certainly  be  at 
Haymore  to-night  so  that  there  may  be  no  mistake,  and 
she  will  be  sure  to  have  beds  aired,  fires  built  and  dinner 
ready  for  us  when  we  get  there?"  suggested  Mr.  Walling, 
who  was  always  directly  on  the  lookout  for  his  own  personal 
comforts,  and,  incidentally,  for  those  of  others. 

Ean  immediately  acted  on  the  suggestion,  saying,  when 
he  rejoined  his  friends  after  sending  the  dispatch : 

"She  will  think  the  message  comes  from  the  other  fellow 
in  Paris  and  that  he  is  in  London  on  his  way  to  Hay- 
more." 

"She  will  think,  or  rather  she  will  see,  that  the  telegram 
comes  from  Mr.  Bandolph  Hay,  and  that  will  be  enough," 
replied  Mr.  Walling. 

"When  the  other  fellow  comes  on  the  fifteenth  with  his 

friends  and  finds  us  in  possession Well !  I  can't  help 

anticipating  a  rink,  a  circus,  a  hippodrome,  a  spectacular 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  179 

drama,  an  earthquake,  a  conflagration  and  the  day  of  judg 
ment  all  rolled  into  one!"  said  Randolph,  with  a  laugh. 

"And  there  will  be  nothing  of  the  sort.  Only  at  most  a 
panic  and  a  total  rout.  Come,  we  must  take  our  seats,"  ex 
claimed  Will  Walling,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  waiting  train, 
where  a  guide  showed  them  into  the  middle  compartment 
of  a  first-class  carriage. 

Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  had  taken  tickets  for  the 
second  class. 

"Now  is  it  not  too  bad  that  Ran  cannot  get  our  friends 
in  here  with  us,  Mr.  Walling?"  demanded  Judy,  as  she 
settled  herself  in  the  luxurious  corner  front  seat  of  their 
compartment  and  noticed  that  there  were  just  six  seats. 

"My  dear  Judy,"  muttered  Ran,  "your  brother  and  his 
companions  are  able  to  take  these  three  vacant  seats  with 
us  if  they  please,  but  for  prudential  and  very  praiseworthy 
reasons  they  choose  to  economize  and  take  the  second  class. 
I  could  not  offer  them  a  worse  offense  than  invite  them 
to  take  these  seats  at  my  expense." 

"Well,  I  do  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  false  pride  in 
the  world,"  Judy  pouted. 

"So  there  is,  darling ;  but  we  cannot  cure  it." 

"It  is  a  wonder  their  high  mightinesses  consent  to  go 
with  you  to  Haymore  and  be  your  guests  there." 

"That  is  a  different  affair." 

"I  don't  see  that  it  is." 

"But  they  do,"  laughed  Ran. 

The  train  started,  and  the  conversation  dropped. 

It  was  still  in  the  darkness  before  day  that  they  left  the 
station  and  sped  off  into  the  open  country,  where  the  world 
was  scarcely  beginning  to  wake  up.  In  London  the  world 
seems  never  to  go  to  sleep. 

Our  three  travelers  had  had  but  little  rest  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours;  and  so,  between  the  darkness  of  the 
hour,  'the  motion  of  the  train  and  their  own  weariness,  they 
dozed  off  into  dreamland,  where  they  lingered  some  hours, 
until  they  were  called  back  by  the  sudden  stopping  of  the 
train,  for  an  instant  only,  for  before  they  were  fully  awake 
it  was  off  again,  flying  northward  as  if  pursued  by  the 
furies. 

Judy  shook  herself  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window  on 


180  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

her  right  hand  to  see  the  eastern  horizon  red  with  the  com 
ing  of  the  wintry  sun  above  the  moorland. 

At  noon  they  reached  Liverpool,  where  they  left  their 
seats,  got  lunch  and  then  changed  their  train  for  the  Great 
Northern  for  York. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  entered  the  great  cathedral 
city,  where  again  they  left  their  seats,  took  tea  and  a  little 
later  took  train  for  Chuxton. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  they  came  to  the  end  of  their 
railway  journey  at  the  little  market  town. 

There  was  no  carriage  waiting  to  take  them  to  Haymore. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  Ran  for  the  first  time  that  by 
some  strange  oversight  no  carriage  had  been  ordered  by  him 
or  his  attorney  to  come  from  the  Hall  to  meet  them  at  the 
station. 

There  were  several  vehicles  around  the  place,  but  all 
seemed  to  be  engaged  by  other  parties. 

Our  friends  walked  together  to  the  Tawny  Lion  Tavern, 
where  Ran  ordered  refreshment  and  inquired  for  a  con 
veyance  to  Havmore. 

The  Tawny  Lion  boasted  but  one — a  large  carryall  drawn 
by  two  stout  horses — but  that  was  then  engaged,  and  would 
not  be  available  to  our  travelers  for  perhaps  two  hour?. 

These  were  passed  by  Ran  and  Judy,  after  they  had  fin 
ished  their  meal,  in  sauntering  about  the  quaint,  old-fash 
ioned  town  and  making  acquaintance  with  its  streets  and 
houses. 

"Here's  where  we  shall  have  to  come  to  do  our  country 
shopping,  you  know,  darling,"  said  Ran;  "for  I  have  been 
told  that  there  is  but  one  general  shop  at  Haymore,  where, 
though  they  keep  everything  to  sell,  from  a  second-hand 
pulpit  to  a  soup  dish,  you  can  get  nothing  very  good  " 

''But  I  shall  encourage  the  home  trade,  and  deal  at  Hay- 
more  all  the  same,"  replied  Judy. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Will  Walling  spent  his  time  of  waiting 
over  the  fire  in  the  inn  parlor,  with  a  bottle  of  port  wine 
and  a  stack  of  cigars  on  the  table  beside  him. 

And  Longman,  accompanied  by  his  shadows.  Dandy  and 
Mike,  walked  out  in  the  direction  of  the  Old  Heath  Farm 
to  make  inquiries  about  his  mother,  and.  naturally,  the 
nearer  he  came  +o  the  scene  of  his  boyhood's  home  the  keener 
and  the  more  intense  became  his  anxiety.  It  had  never 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  181 

seemed  to  him  that  his  buxom,  healthy,  hearty  mother 
could  have  sickened  and  died :  nor  had  it  seemed  more  than, 
barely  possible  that  she  might  have  married  again.  He 
rather  hoped  to  find  her  where  he  had  left  her  five  years 
before,  living  on  the  farm.  Still,  as  he  turned  from  the 
Chuxton  highroad  and  went  into  a  narrow  lane,  overhung^ 
by  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees  that  grew  on  each  side 
the  path  leading  to  the  farmhouse,  all  the  dread  possibilities 
of  life  seemed  to  threaten  him  ahead.  He  could  not  now 
speak  of  his  feelings.  He  hurried  on.  The  giant  was  as 
weak  as  a  child  when  he  passed  through  the  farm  yard  and 
went  up  to  the  house.  A  man  was  approaching  from  an 
other  direction. 

Longman  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  house  for  sup 
port  as  he  faltered  forth  a  question. 

"Eh?"  demanded  the  farmer,  looking  fixedly  at  the 
stranger,  as  if  he  suspected  him  of  being  top  heavy  through 
too  much  drink.  "Is  it  the  Widow  Longman  ye're  asking- 
about?  Xo,  she  dun  not  bide  here  now.  She  hasn't  been 
here  for  these  five  years  past." 

Another  faint,  almost  inaudible  question  from  the  weak 
giant,  which  the  farmer  had  to  bend  his  quick,  sharp  ear  to 
hear  at  all. 

"Is  she  living,  do  you  arsk?  Oh,  ay,  she's  living  good 
enough.  She's  keeping  house  for  the  parson  at  the  rectory, 
Haymore.  about  ten  miles  to  the  norrard  of  this." 

"I  thank  the  Lord !"  ejaculated  Longman,  lifting  his  cap, 
almost  overcome  by  the  sudden  collapse  of  highly  strung- 
nerves. 

"See  here,  my  man,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  You 
look  to  be  used  up !  I  thought  it  was  drink  when  I  first 
saw  you.  But  now  I  see  it  isn't.  You  look  to  be  faint  for 
want  of  drink,  not  heavy  from  too  much  of  it.  Come  in 
now  and  take  a  mug  o'  beer,  home  brewed.  ''Twill  do  ye 
good."  urged  the  farmer. 

"Xo,  thank  you.  Xo,  really.  You  are  very  kind,  but 
I  must  get  on,"  said  Longman,  rising,  and  now  that  his- 
tension  of  anxiety  was  relieved,  gaining  life  with  every 
breath  he  drew. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  now  if  you  was  that  son  o'  hern  who 
went  to  sea  long  years  ago  and  never  was  heerd  on  since?'* 
said  the  farmer,  calling  after  him. 


182  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Yes,  I  am  her  son,  and  I  am  going  to  Haymore  now  to 
find  her.  Thank  you,  and  good-day  to  you,"  said  Longman. 

"I'm  dogged  glad  on  it!  One  widdy's  heart  will  sing 
for  joy  this  night,  anyhow!  Well,  good-day,  and  good 
luck  to  you,  my  lad!"  were  the  last  words  of  the  kind- 
hearted  farmer. 

When  Longman  rejoined  his  two  friends,  who  he  had  left 
waiting  for  him  at  the  farm  gate,  his  happy  face  told  the 
"glad  tidings"  before  his  tongue  could  speak  them. 

"Hooray!  It's  good  news  ye're  afther  hearing!"  cried 
Mike,  throwing  up  his  cap  and  catching  it. 

"Yes,  I  thank  the  Lord!"  replied  Longman  reverently. 

And  then,  as  they  walked  down  the  lane  and  out  upon 
the  highroad  leading  to  Chuxton,  Longman  told  them  all 
that  he  had  heard  from  the  farmer. 

"So  she's  housekeeper  at  the  rectory  itself !  That's  where 
your  niece,  Miss  Julia,  will  be  at  service,  Mr.  Quin!"  ex 
claimed  Mike;  "that  is,  if  she's  not  married,"  he  added. 

"Or  dead,  poor  wench!"  sighed  old  Dandy. 

"Oh,  bother  that!  Nobody's  dead,  or  going  to  die  just 
yet,  is  there,  Samson,  man?" 

"I  hope  not,  Mike." 

"Anyways,  we  shall  hear  when  we  get  to  Haymore.  Yes, 
that  is  so/'  said  Dandy,  with  an  air  of  resignation. 

He  was  not  nearly  so  anxious  to  hear  from  his  niece  as 
Longman  had  been  to  get  news  of  his  mother.  He  did  not, 
indeed,  care  much  about  her  now,  whatever  he  might  come 
to  care  after  he  should  have  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
her. 

When  they  reached  Chuxton  and  turned  into  the  street 
leading  to  the  "Tawny  Lion,"  they  saw  the  huge  carryall 
drawn  up  before  the  door,  with  a  crowd  of  idlers,  mostly 
boys,  gathered  around  it  to  see  it  start. 

Longman  and  his  companions  went  into  the  parlor,  where 
they  found  the  Hays  and  Will  Walling  waiting  for  them. 

"Why  have  you  stayed  for  us,  Mr.  Hay?  This  is  really 
ioo  kind !"  said  Longman. 

"Kind  to  myself,  friend!  I  did  not  want  to  go  without 
you.  Even  if  I  had,  Judy  would  not  have  allowed  it.  I 
see  by  your  face  that  you  have  good  news  of  your  mother. 
I  congratulate  you."  said  Ran,  offering  his  hand. 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  Heaven  !"  replied  the  hunter.    And  then 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  183 

in  a  few  words,  as  they  walked  to  the  carryall,  he  told  all 
he  heard  at  the  farm. 

"That  is  splendid!"  exclaimed  Judy  with  enthusiasm, 
as  she  was  lifted  into  the  carryall  by  Ean  and  placed  in  the 
sheltered  back  seat. 

"Dandy  must  sit  back  there  with  you,  darling.  He  is 
old,  and  then  the  drive  over  the  moor  will  be  a  very  cold 
one.  You  won't  mind  it,  will  you,  Judy  ?»  he  inquired,  as 
he  settled  her  among  the  cushions  and  tucked  her  fur  cloak 
well  around  her  feet. 

"Why,  no,  of  course  not.  Especially  if  you  will  sit  right 
in  front  of  me  so  I  can  lean  my  head  forward  on  your 
shoulder  sometimes,"  Judy  replied. 

Then  Ean  helped  Dandy  in  and  made  him  sit  by  Judy. 
The  others  followed. 

."Ran  and  Will  Walling  sat  immediately  in  front  of  Judy 
and  Dandy. 

Mike  and  Longman  on  the  third  seat  forward.  The 
driver,  a  stout  Yorkshireman,  on  the  box. 

The  strong  draught  horses  started  at  a  moderate  pace, 
such  as  might  well  be  kept  up  during  the  whole  journey 
across  the  moor. 

It  was  a  dark,  cold  night,  and  the  two  glass  lanterns, 
fixtures,  on  each  side  above  the  drivers  seat,  did  little  better 
than  make  "darkness  visible."  But  the  road  was  as  safe 
as  a  road  by  night  could  be,  and  the  horses  knew  it  as  well 
as  they  knew  the  way  to  their  own  cribs. 

Two  hours  of  jog  trot,  safe  and  steady  driving  brought 
them  to  a  great  mass  of  dense  shadows,  like  black  moun 
tains  and  ^f crests  against  a  dark  gray  northern  sky. 

The  driver  drew  up  his  horses  before  this  mystery  and 
announced  that  they  had  reached  the  great  wall  of  Hay- 
more  Park. 

"How  far  from  the  lodge  gates?"  inquired  Ran. 

"About  half  a  mile,  sir." 

"Drive  on  then." 

"If  you^please,  Mr.  Hay,  I  would  like  to  leave  the  carryall 
at  the  point  nearest  Haymore  hamlet  and  rectory,"  said 
Longman. 

"Of  course  !  Of  course !  Xaturally  you  must  hasten  first 
of  all  to  your  dear  mother.  But  remember,  friend,  you  are 


184  FOfl  WHOSE  SAKE? 

my  guest  at  the  Hall,  and  bring  your  mother  also  if  yon 
can  persuade  her  to  come,"  heartily  responded  Ean. 

"Yes,  do,  Mr.  Longman.  And  I  will  go  to  see  your 
mother  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  can,"  warmly  added  Judy. 

"I  thank  you  both  very  much,"  replied  Longman,  but  he 
gave  no  promise. 

"Remember,  Longman,  that  you  saved  my  life.  But  for 
you — under  the  Divine  Providence,"  said  Ran,  reverently 
lifting  his  hat,  "I  should  not  be  here  now." 

"No,  nor  I,  either,  for  that  matter,"  added  Judy. 

"We  both  owe  you  a  debt  that  we  can  never  repay,  Long 
man,"  said  Ran,  with  emotion. 

"Never,  except  in  love  and  gratitude.  And  we  would 
like  to  put  'a  body'  in  our  sentiments  to  make  them  'felt/ 
Mr.  Longman.  You  will  come  and  stay  with  us  at  the 
house,  will  you  not?"  pleaded  Judy. 

"You  make  too  much  of  my  service,  a  service  that  any 
man  worthy  of  the  name  would  have  done  for  any  other. 
I  do  not  know  what  my  plain  old  mother  would  say  to 
you." 

"I  am  plain  myself,"  said  Judy;  "a  child  of  the  people. 
Less  than  that,  for  I  never  knew  father  or  mother — a  child 
of  the  planet  only !  My  only  worth  is  being  the  wife  of  my 
dear  Ran  here !" 

"Yes,  madam,  you  are  the  wife  of  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  of 
Haymore.  You  are  the  lady  of  the  manor.  And  in  this 
country  a  social  abyss  divides  you  and  yours  from  me  and 
mine  as  deep,  as  impassable  as  that  'great  gulf  that  lay  be 
tween  Dives  and  Lazarus,"  said  Longman  solemnly. 

"It  is  not  so!  It  shall  not  be  so!  I  will  not  have  it! 
Nothing  but  the  will  of  Heaven  shall  divide  us  from  our 
dear  friends !"  said  Judy  passionately. 

"No!"  added  Ran  with  earnest  emphasis.  "No  social 
gulf  shall  separate  us,  Longman,  dear  old  boy !" 

"Here  we  be  at  the  lodge  gates,  sir.  And  this  is  the 
nearest  point  we  pass  to  the  rectory.  We  turn  in  here  to  go 
by  the  elm  avenue  up  to  the  Hall.  And  the  road  continues 
right  straight  on  under  the  park  wall  up  to  the  rectorv  and 
the  church,  which  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,"  the 
driver  explained,  drawing  up. 

"Well,  Longman,  I  should  like  you  to  go  on  to  the  house 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  185 

and  dine  with  us,  but  I  know  it  would  be  wrong  to  ask 
you,"  said  Ran,  as  the  hunter  got  up  to  leave  the  carryall. 

"I  will  see  you  early  in  the  morning,  sir,"  said  the  giant. 
And  then  he  shook  hands  all  around,  jumped  from  the 
carryall  and  strode  on  up  the  road  to  the  rectory  on  that 
visit  to  his  mother  which  we  have  already  described. 

A  woman  came  out  of  the  porter's  lodge  on  the  right-hand 
side,  swung  open  both  broad  leaves  of  the  gate  and  stood 
courtesy  ing  as  the  carryall  rolled  through. 

"The  old  porter's  daughter — a  worthy  dame,"  said  the 
driver,  in  answer  to  a  question  from  Ran. 

The  carriage  rolled  on  through  an  avenue  shaded  by  great 
oaks,  whose  branches,  however,  were  now  bare.  In  the 
turns  of  this  drive  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  house 
through  the  trees,  with  lights  sparling  here  and  there  from 
the  many  windows  into  the  darkness. 

After  several  sweeping  turns  the  avenue  passed  in  front 
of  the  house,  and  the  carriage  drew  up  before  a  huge,  oblong 
gray  building,  with  turrets  at  each  corner,  bay  windows  on 
the  first  floor  and  balconies  above. 

As  the  carriage  stopped  the  hall  door  was  flung  wide, 
and  several  men  and  women  servants  appeared  in  the 
lighted  hall. 

The  butler  stood  in  the  door.  Two  footmen  came  down 
the  steps  to  attend  their  master  and  mistress. 

Ran  lifted  Judy  from  the  carriage,  whispering: 

"Welcome  home,  my  darling,"  and  led  her  up  the  steps 
and  into  the  hall,  followed  by  his  friends. 

The  butler,  with  a  low  bow,  made  way  for  them  to  pass. 

The  housekeeper,  a  very  aged  woman,  dressed  in  a  brown 
satin  gown  and  a  lace  cap,  came  forward  to  meet  them. 

"Welcome  home,  sir  and  madam.  We  have  waited  for 
you  long,  and  greet  you  gladly,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  ex 
aggerated  reverence  and  with  a  deep  courtesy. 

Ran  held  out  his  frank  hand,  and  Judy  said : 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.— Mrs " 

"Basset,  madam,  and  been  in  the  family  all  my  life,  as 
mother  and  father  were  before  me.  Your  old  butler,  sir, 
is  my  son,  getting  older  every  day,  but  not  yet  past  service, 
either  of  us,  I  thank  Heaven.  Will  you  go  to  your  room 
now,  madam?" 


186  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Yes,  if  you  please/'  said  Judy.  "I  would  like  to  take 
off  my  bonnet  and  cloak." 

Mrs.  Basset  looked  all  around,  and  then  said: 

"I  do  not  think  that  your  maid  has  come  in  yet.  Shall 
I  send  one  of  the  men  out  to  hurry  her?  I  suppose  she  is 
busy  with  the  parcels  in  the  carriage. " 

"I — I — I — have  no  maid — yet,"  replied  Judy,  blushing 
deeply,  for  she  was  rather  afraid  of  this  fine  ruin  of  an  old- 
time  housekeeper,  even  though  the  aged  woman  was  evi 
dently  falling  a  little  into  her  second  childhood. 

"Oh,  I  see!  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  You  will  be 
waiting  to  take  some  good  girl  from  the  estate.  That  has 
been  the  wray  with  the  ladies  of  Hay  from  time  immem 
orial."  She  paused  suddenly  in  her  babble  and  looked 
fixedly,  though  still  very  respectfully,  at  Mr.  Hay. 

Now  Ban  was  just  a  little  sensitive  about  his  personal 
appearance.  He  was  not  a  handsome,  soldierly  blond,  but 
a  beautiful,  dark  brunette;  graceful  as  a  leopard,  sinuous 
as  a  serpent.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  humorously  stigmatiz 
ing  himself  as  "a  little  nigger."  So  when  the  aged  house 
keeper  regarded  him  with  her  wistful  gaze,  he  thought  she 
was  saying  to  herself,  how  little  like  he  was  to  any  of  the 
Hays.  He  laughed  a  little  and  said : 

"You  do  not  find  much  resemblance  in  me  to  my  tall  and 
fair  forefathers,  Mrs.  Basset." 

"Sir,"  she  replied  solemnly,  "you  are  the  living  image 
of  your  honored  grandmother. 

The  young  man  burst  out  laughing,  and  was  joined  by 
Mike  and  Judy. 

But  their  mirth  ceased  as  the  aged  housekeeper  added: 

"She  died  at  twenty-three  years  old.  She  was  the  best, 
the  brightest  and  the  most  beautiful  being  that  my  eyes 
ever  beheld  !  And,  yes,  she  died  at  twenty-three  years  old ! 
And  you  are  her  living  image,  as  nearly  as  it  is  possible 
for  a  gentleman  to  be.  That  was  the  reason  why  I  looked 
at  you  so,  sir.  I  beg  your  pardon;  I  forgot  myself." 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  Mrs.  Basset,"  said  Ran  kindly. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  You  can  see  the  portrait  in  the  picture 
gallery  to-morrow  and  judge  for  yourself — or  even  to-night 
if  you  will,"  said  the  housekeeper, 

"Thank  you;  not  to-night;  we  are  too  tired.  To-morrow 
you  shall  show  us  over  the  whole  house,  if  you  will." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  187 

"That  I  will  with  pride  and  pleasure,  sir.  And  now, 
madam,  shall  I  attend  you  to  your  room?" 

"Thank  you,  yes,  please,"  said  Judy;  and  she  followed 
her  conductress  up  the  broad  staircase  to  a  vast  upper  halL 

The  housekeeper  opened  a  door  near  the  head  of  the 
stairs  and  admitted  her  charge  into  a  spacious,  sumptuous 
bed-chamber,  upholstered  in  ebony  and  old  gold,  and  in 
which  burned  a  fine  open  coal  fire. 

The  aged  woman,  much  against  Judy's  will,  insisted  upon 
waiting  upon  her;  took  off  her  heavy  cloak  and  hat  and 
hung  them  in  the  wardrobe,  drew  a  luxurious  easy-chair  to 
the  fire  and  seated  her  in  it,  and  hovered  around  her  with 
affectionate  attentions  until  Mr.  Hay  came  in,  when,  with 
one  of  her  quaint  courtesies,  she  withdrew  from  th:?  room. 

Again  Ean  took  Judy  in  his  arms,  folded  her  to  his  heart, 
kissed  her  fondly  and  welcomed  her  home. 

"And  to-morrow,  my  darling,  we  shall  have  to  prepare 
to  welcome  Gentleman  "Gen3  and  his — lady.  I  shall  send  in 
the  morning  for  Mr.  Campbell  and  his  daughter,  that  the 
villian  may  be  confronted  with  his  wronged  wife,  as  well  as 
his  betrayed  friend,"  said  Ran,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  Judy 
to  take  her  down  to  the  dining-room,  where  dinner  waited. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WAITING  THE  ISSUE 

IN  the  morning  Ran  and  Judy  woke  up  to  look,  for  the 
first  time,  by  daylight  on  their  new  home. 

Ran  opened  the  windows  and  let  in  the  light  of  the 
December  day  upon  their  bedchamber,  a  vast,  peaceful, 
slumberous  room,  upholstered  throughout  in  olive  green 
and  gold,  and  looking  out  upon  a  park,  full  of  sunny  glades 
and  shady  groves,  even  now  in  winter  when  the  light  of  day 
shone  down  on  burnished  dry  grass  in  the  glades  and  ever 
green  trees  in  the  groves. 

The  young  couple,  though  lord  and  lady  of  the  Manor 
of  Haymore,  had  as  yet  neither  valet  nor  maid.  So  Ran 
rang  no  bell,  but  from  a  hodful  of  coal  at  the  chimney; 


188  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

corner,  with  his  own  hand,  replenished  the  fire  in  the  grate 
and  then  went  to  make  his  toilet. 

Judy  lay  still,  with  her  eyes  looking  through  the  large 
windows  on  two  sides  of  the  spacious  chamber,  out  upon  the 
sunny  and  shady  park  until  Ran  had  finished  dressing  and 
left  the  room.  Then  she  arose  and  took  her  bath  and  opened 
her  large  sea  trunk  to  find  a  dress  suitable  for  her  morning 
wear. 

She  finally  selected  a  plain  suit  of  dark  gray  velveteen, 
with  crimped  linen  ruffles  at  the  throat  and  wrists.  She 
put  it  on  and  went  downstairs. 

In  the  hall  below  she  found  the  wide  doors  open  in  front, 
admitting  the  winter  sunshine,  and  a  great  coal  fire  burning 
in  the  broad  fireplace  in  the  back;  and  between  the  two, 
near  the  front  of  the  stairs,  Ran,  Will  Walling,  Mike  and 
Dandy  standing  in  conversation. 

Dandy  was  the  spokesman. 

"I  did  think/'  he  was  saying,  "that  Longman  would 
have  come  back  last  night  to  bring  me  news  of  Julie.  But, 
Lord,  I  do  suppose  he  got  so  wrapped  up  into  his  mother 
that  he  clean  forgot  me  and  mine,  or  else,  maybe,  he  could 
not  well  get  away." 

"That  was  it,  Dandy,"  said  Ran. 

"Same  time,  if,  as  how  I  had  thought  it  might  be  so, 
myself  would  have  gone  to  the  rectory  with  him.  And  'deed 
I'd  a-gone,  anyhow,  only  I  didn't  like  to  be  intruding  into 
a  strange  place." 

"I  can't  understand,"  said  Will  Walling,  speaking  for  the 
first  time,  "how  you  fortune-seekers  can  bear  to  stay  away 
for  years  from  your  native  country  without  hearing  a  word 
from  any  of  your  friends  at  home,  and  then,  when  you  make 
up  our  mind  to  return,  and  once  set  foot  in  your  native 
land,  you  straightway  get  into  a  fever  of  anxiety  and  im 
patience  to  meet  them." 

"No  more  do  I,  but  so  it  is !"  confessed  Dandy. 

"Yis,"  added  Mike.  "Sure  it  was  the  very  same  wid 
Mister  Longman,  himself  when  he  was  gitting  nigh  onto  the 
ould  farrum  where  he  left  his  mother.  It  is  curious." 

"You  see,  if  I  only  knowed  she  were  alive  and  well," 
said  Dandy  apologetically. 

"Oh,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,"  cheerfully  exclaimed  Ran, 
*but  I  don't  think  she  is  at  the  rectory." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  189 

"Why  don't  you  then,  sir?"  inquired  Dandy. 

"Because  if  she  had  been  Longman  would  have  seen  her 
and  told  her  about  you,  and  she  would  certainly  have  run 
over  last  night  or  early  this  morning  to  see  you." 

"So  she  would!  So  she  would!  And  yet  I  dunno — I 
dunno !  Even  darters  in  these  days  ain't  none  too  dutiful 
to  feythers,  let  alone  nieces  to  uncles,  'specially  when  they've 
been  parted  twenty  years,"  said  Dandy,  shaking  his  bald 
head. 

"I  don't  think  she  is  at  the  rectory,  or,  under  the  circum 
stances,  she  would  have  run  over  here  to  see  you,"  said 
Ran. 

"I  dunno!    I  dunno!" 

"It  is  most  likely  she  is  married  and  away." 

"Or  dead  and  buried,  poor  wench,"  sighed  Dandj\ 

"Come,  come,  don't  be  so  downhearted.  Longman  will 
be  here  soon.  He  promised  to  come  early  this  morning, 
and  no  doubt  he  will  bring  good  news  of  your  niece.  Now 
here  is  Judy,  and  we  will  go  in  to  our  breakfast,"  concluded 
Ran. 

Judy,  stepping  from  the  bottom  stair  to  the  hall  floor, 
greeted  Will  Walling,  Mike  and  Dandy  with  a  cordial  good- 
morning  and  led  the  way  to  the  breakfast  room. 

It  was  just  under  the  bedchamber  Judy  had  left,  and 
had  the  same  outlook  from  windows  on  the  east  and  north 
of  sunny  glades,  of  burnished  dry  grass  and  shady  groves 
of  Scotch  firs. 

The  table  was  laid  for  five,  and  the  old  butler  was  in  at 
tendance;  not  that  His  Importance,  Mr.  Basset,  the  butler, 
ever  waited  at  any  other  meal  except  dinner,  and  then  only 
at  the  sideboard;  but  on  this  particular  occasion  of  the  first 
breakfast  of  the  bridal  pair  at  Haymore  he  thought  proper 
to  volunteer  his  attendance  in  their  honor. 

The  consequence  was  that  Mike,  Dandy  and  even  Judy 
were  almost  afraid  to  speak,  lest  they  should  expose  their 
ignorance  of  high  life  to  this  imposing  personage. 

The  five  sat  down  to  table  under  the  cloud  of  the  butler's 
greatness. 

But  soon  the  fragrant  Mocha,  the  luscious  waffles  and  the 
savory  venison  steaks  and  other  appetizing  edibles  combined 
to  dispel  the  gloom  and  enliven  their  spirits. 


190  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

After  breakfast  Judy  sent  for  the  housekeeper,  and 
claimed  her  promise  to  show  them  through  the  building. 

Mrs.  Basset  was  only  too  willing  to  oblige.  The  five 
friends,  led  by  their  conductress,  went  first  up  the  grand 
staircase  that  led  from  the  lower  to  the  upper  halls  on  every 
floor  to  the  top  of  the  house. 

"We  had  better  go  to  the  top  first,  ma'am,  while  we  are 
fresh,  else  we  might  find  the  stairs  hard  to  climb,"  said 
Mrs.  Basset. 

And  Judy,  as  she  knew  that  the  old  woman  spoke  chiefly 
in  the  interests  of  her  own  infirmities,  answered  promptly : 

"You  know  best,  Mrs.  Basset.  Suit  yourself,  and  you 
will  suit  us." 

They  went  upstairs  to  the  low-ceiled  rooms  under  the 
roof,  which  Mrs.  Basset  described  as  servants'  bedrooms — 
storerooms  for  furniture  out  of  season,  boxes,  etc. 

Then  to  the  next  below,  all  extra  bedrooms,  and  to  the 
next  below  that,  all  family  suites  of  apartments ;  and  down 
to  the  next,  on  which  were  the  long  drawing  and  the  ball 
room,  which,  with  the  broad  hall  between  them,  took  up 
the  whole  flat. 

Lastly,  they  came  down  to  the  first  floor,  on  which  were 
the  long  dining-room,  the  breakfast  room,  the  parlor,  the 
library  and  the  picture  gallery,  which  was  the  last  place 
to  be  inspected. 

The  family  portraits  were  arranged  in  chronological  or 
der,  beginning  with  the  Saxon  ancestor  of  the  eighth  cen 
tury,  who,  with  rudest  arms  and  in  rudest  clothing,  resisted 
the  first  invasion  of  the  Danes,  and  whose  "counterfeit  pre 
sentment"  here  was  probably  but  the  work  of  the  rough 
artist's  imagination,  executed,  or  rather  perpetrated,  at  a 
much  later  date. 

Then  in  regular  order  came  the  barons  who  had  rallied 
around  Hereward  in  his  last  desperate  stand  against  the 
usurper,  William  of  Normandy;  the  iron-clad  knights  who 
had  followed  Richard  of  the  Lion  heart  to  the  Holy  Land; 
the  barons  who  had  taken  up  arms  in  support  of  the  House 
of  York  against  that  of  Lancaster;  the  plumed  cavaliers 
who  had  insanely  flocked  with  all  their  retainers  to  the 
standard  of  the  Stuarts  in  every  mad  attempt  of  that  un 
happy  family  to  regain  their  lost  throne;  pcriwig-pated 
courtiers  of  the  Georgian  dynasty;  and,  lastly,  the  swallow- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  191 

tail  coated  and  patent-leather  booted  gentlemen  of  the  Vic 
torian  age,  as  represented  by  the  late  squire  and  his  three 
sons. 

The  ladies  of  the  chiefs  were  all  there,  too,  each  by  the 
side  of  her  "lord,"  and  dressed  in  costume  of  her  time,  or 
in  what  was  supposed  to  be  such,  for  there  is  little  doubt 
that  many  of  the  earlier  portraits  were  merely  fancy  pic 
tures. 

Before  the  group  of  the  late  squire  and  his  family  Judy 
suddenly  caught  her  breath  and  clasped  her  hands  and  stood 
stock-still,  gazing  on  the  full-length  picture  of  a  beautiful 
dark  girl. 

"It  is  like,  isn't  it  now,  ma'am?"  inquired  the  house 
keeper. 

"Like !  Why,  the  picture  might  be  taken  for  his  portrait 
if  it  were  not  for  the  dress !"  exclaimed  Judy,  gazing  at  her 
husband. 

"It  is  still  more  like  my  Cousin  Palma,"  said  Ran. 

"Why,  so  it  is,"  assented  Judy;  "and  does  not  need 
change  of  drcs?  to  make  it  perfect.  The  hair  of  that  lady 
in  the  picture  is  worn  exactly  as  Palma  wears  hers,  and 
that  costume  of  dark  blue  is  not  unlike  the  dress  Palma 
wore  to  our  wedding  in  color  and  make." 

"It  is  indeed  a  wonderful  likeness  to  Mrs.  Stuart,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Walling.  "'Who  is  the  lady?"  he  demanded, 
turning  to  the  housekeeper. 

"The  last  Mrs.  Hay,  of  Haymore,  the  grandmother  of 
the  young  squire  here.  She  died  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  leaving  three  boys,  of  one,  two  and  three  years  of 
age — to  give  the  figures  in  round  numbers,"  replied  Mrs. 
Basset. 

"Yes,  I  know  she  was  the  wife  of  the  late  squire;  but 
whose  daughter  was  she?"  persisted  Will  Walling. 

The  housekeeper  was  silent. 

"Faix,  Misther  Walling,  is  it  in  the  coorthoose  ye  are, 
with  Misthress  Basset  intil  the  witness  box,  that  ye  would 
be  cross-examining  herself  ?"  demanded  Mike. 

Will  Walling  turned  a  deprecating,  apologetic  glance 
upon  Ran,  who  quietly  replied : 

"She  was  the  daughter  of  a  gypsy  chief.  Her  name  was 
Gentyl  Tuinquer." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Will.     Then,  feeling  rather  nn- 


192  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

comfortable,  he  added,  to  cover  his  confusion.  "How  beau 
tiful  she  must  have  been  !" 

"And  how  much  more  beautiful  she  must  be  now  !"  ex 
claimed  Judy. 

The  lawyer  stared  at  her. 

"Up  there  in  heaven,  I  mean;  for,  of  course,  she  is  in 
heaven,  for  you  may  see  by  her  face  how  good  she  is,"  added 
Judy. 

The  housekeeper  sighed.  All  the  ladies  of  the  long  line 
of  Hays  had  been  "angel  born"  before  this  gypsy  girl  from 
the  tents  came  into  the  family.  And  though  the  woman 
could  not  help  loving  the  memory  of  the  lovely  young  crea 
ture,  she  equally  could  not  help  suffering  in  her  own  pride 
at  any  mention  of  the  gypsy  birth. 

Ran  kissed  the  hand  of  the  pictured  lady  and  then  turned 
with  his  party  to  leave  the  gallery. 

On  stepping  out  into  the  hall  a  footman  met  him,  and 
with  a  respectful  salute  said : 

"If  you  please,  sir,  there  is — a — person  waiting  to  see 
you." 

"A  person?  Who?  What  sort  of  a  person?"  demanded 
Ran. 

"A  foreign-looking  tall  man,  sir;  might  be  a  Patagonian, 
only  he  can  speak  English." 

"Show  him  in  here."  And  with  these  words  Ran  crossed 
the  hall  and  entered  a  morning  parlor  on  the  same  floor. 
Then  looking  back  he  saw  that,  though  his  footman  had 
gone  on  his  errand,  his  friends  lingered  in  the  hall. 

"Come  in,  all  of  you.  It  is  only  Longman.  You  will 
all  want  to  see  him,  especially  will  Mr.  Quin." 

"I  do  want  to  see  him.  Yes,  that  is  so,"  assented  Dandy, 
as  they  all  followed  Ran  into  the  parlor,  where  they  found 
quite  a  variety  of  comfortable  chairs. 

They  were  scarcely  seated  when  Longman  entered. 

Ran  sprang  up  and  met  him ;  but  Dandy  pushed  between 
them,  his  round,  bald  head,  as  well  as  his  face,  glowing  red 
with  excitement  as  he  demanded : 

"Have  you  seen  my  Juley?  Is  she  well  and  happy?  Is 
she  still  in  the  service  of  the  minister  ?" 

"She  is  well  and  happy,  but  no  longer  in  service  any 
where.  She  is  married  to  John  Legg,  the  greengrocer  of 
your  native  village,  Hedge.  So  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  193 

of  making  her  acquaintance/7  Longman  replied,  with  a 
laugh. 

"The  Lord  above  us  !  Well,  I  did  sort  of  hope  she  was  an 
old-maid  woman  as  would  have  been  a  housekeeper  and  a 
daughter  to  myself  in  my  old  days.  Well,  and  now  she  is 
married,  and,  I  do  dare  say,  with  a  baker's  dozen  of  chil 
dren.  Yes,  that  is  so,"  said  Dandy,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"No,  but  it  isn't  so.  She  only  married  a  few  months  ago, 
when  she  was  over  forty  years  old,  and  John  Legg,  the 
widower,  who  took  her  for  his  second  wife,  over  fifty;  so 
she  has  no  baker's  dozen  of  children  as  yet." 

"Oh,  Fs  warrant  he  has  a  house  full  o'  young  uns  for 
her  to  be  stepmother  to !  And  that  will  be  a  heap  worse 
than  if  the  wench  had  a  score  of  her  own !  It  is  as  bad  as 
if  I  had  found  her  dead !  Yes,  that  is  so,"  sighed  Dandy. 
"No,  it  isn't  so.  You  are  all  out  again.  John  Legg  has 
no  children  at  home.  He  has  a  son  and  daughter,  and  gave 
them  both  a  grand  education  above  his  means,  and  to  repay 
him  they  did  all  they  could  to  break  his  heart.  They  had 
worldly  ambitions  above  their  state,  and  despised  the  calling 
of  their  father.  The  son  took  'holy  orders/  not  for  the  love 
of  the  Lord  or  the  neighbor,  but"  for  love  of  self  and  the 
world.  He  became  a  professional  preacher  only,  not  a  min 
ister  of  religion.  Mr.  Hay,"  said  the  speaker,  suddenly 
turning  toward  Ran,  "I  shall  presently  have  something  to 
say  to  you  in  reference  to  this  man,  in  which  you  have  an 
especial  interest." 

"Thank  you,  Longman.  I  will  remember  to  remind  you 
of  it,"  replied  Ran. 

"Now  will  you  please  go  on  telling  me  about  the  family 
my  niece  married  into?"  said  Dandy  impatiently. 

"Certainly !"  smiled  Longman,  goocl-humoredly.  "The 
son  utterly  ignores  his  father  and  hangs  on  the  skirts  of 
influential  people;  but  as  yet  has  had  but  little  success. 
The  daughter  went  out  as  a  governess,  less  it  seems  to  be 
of  service  to  children  than  to  seek  her  own  fortune,  through 
her  beauty,  among  the  rich  and  noble.  She  also  ignores 
her  father.  Both  these  hopefuls  are  'married  and  settled/ 
to  use  the  common  phrase.  And  the  newly-wedded,  middle- 
aged  couple  are  alone." 

"And  what  could  have  tempted  my  gal  to  agone  and 


194  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

married  of  a  old  widdyman,  whose  son  and  darter  had 
showed  sich  bad  blood?" 

"Well,  to  get  out  of  service,  perhaps;  to  have  a  house 
and  home  and  a  good  husband,  whom  she  could  love,  in 
this  John  Legg." 

"I  don't  memorize  the  name  of  no  John  Legg  at  Hedge, 
though,  to  be  sure,  I  have  been  away  from  them  parts  for 
twenty  years — yes,  that  is  so !" 

"No,  you  can't  remember  him.  He  was  not  a  Medge 
man.  He  came  from  the  borough  in  London  about  two 
years  ago.  After  his  wife  died,  broken-hearted,  it  is  said, 
by  the  conduct  of  his  children,  he  sold  out  his  business  in 
London  and  came  down  to  Medge,  where  he  had  a  married 
sister  and  many  nieces  and  nephews,  his  only  relatives,  ex 
cept  his  undutiful  son  and  daughter.  He  had  enough  to 
live  on  in  retirement,  but  could  not  .mjoy  himself  in  idle 
ness.  So  he  took  the  first  chance  to  go  into  business  again. 
It  happened  that  the  only  greengrocer  in  the  place,  an  aged 
man,  wanted  to  sell  out  and  go  to  live  with  his  married 
daughter,  who  was  the  wife  of  a  farmer  in  the  neighbor 
hood." 

"More  fool  he!"  exclaimed  Dandy.  "I  saw  the  play  of 
'Lear'  once." 

"But  there  was  a  Cordelia  in  it,  you  know,  Dandy !" 

"Yes;  go  on." 

"John  Legg  bought  out  the  old  greengrocer,  shop,  stock, 
house,  furniture  and  good  will.  The  rectory  people  dealt 
with  him,  as  why  not  when  he  was  the  only  greengrocer  in 
the  village?  And  so  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  their 
servant,  Julia  Quin,  and  soon  proposed  to  marry  her,  and 
as  she  did  not  wish  to  leave  Medge  and  go  with  the  rector 
and  his  wife  to  Hay  more,  she  accepted  honest  John  Legg. 
And  I  hear  that  they  make  a  very  comfortable  couple." 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this  here  you  are  a-telling  me  of 
so  confident  like?" 

"Because  in  your  interests  I  made  very  minute  inquiries 
into  all  the  circumstances,  and  Mr.  Campbell  was  so  good  as 
to  give  me  all  the  particulars,"  replied  Longman.  "And, 
Dandy,  will  you  let  me  speak  to  my  other  friends — they 
are  waiting,  you  see?" 

"Sartinly,  Mr.  Longman.  Who's  a-hindering  on  you? 
I  myself  am  going  into  the  town  to  send  a  telescope  mes- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  195 

sage  to  my  niece,"  replied  the  old  man,  and  with  a  low  bow, 
intended  for  all  the  company,  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Ran  hastily  shook  hand?  with  Longman,  then  leaving 
him  with  the  others,  hurried  out  after  his  old  friend,  whom 
he  found  on  the  drive. 

"Dandy  !    Dandy,  I  say  !    Please  stop  !"  he  called. 

"Well/ Mr.  Hay,  what's  your  will,  sir?"  the  old  fellow 
demanded,  turning  to  face  his  host. 

"You  must  not  walk  into  the  village-.    Take  the  dogcart." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Hay,  sir;  but " 

"I  will  have  my  way.  Come  down  with  me  to  the  stables. 
I  have  not  seen  them  yet.  But  I  know  there  is  a  dogcart, 
because  Mr.  Walling,  who  is  always  wide  awake,  took  a 
drive  in  it  this  morning  to  get  an  appetite  for  his  breakfast 
before  we  were  up,"  said  Ean,  as  he  turned  into  a  footpath 
leading  through  the  grounds  to  the  rear  of  the  hall,  fa'r  be 
hind  which  were  the  stables. 

Dandy  followed  him,  if  the  truth  te  to  be  told,  not  un 
willing  to  spare  his  old  limbs  by  riding  instead  of  walking 
to  the  village. 

The  stable  yard  occupied  full  a  square  quarter  acre  of 
ground,  walled  in  by  massive  stone  buildings,  consisting  of 
stables  proper,  carriage  houses,  harness  rooms,  coachman's 
and  groom's  quarters  and  kennels. 

It  was  full  of  activity  on  this  morning;  for  all  the  four- 
legged  creatures  there,  horses  and  hounds,  seemed  spoiling 
for  a  run,  and  were  venting  their  impatience  of  restraint— 
the  horses  by  neighing  and  kicking  and  the  hounds  by  howl 
ing  and  scratching. 

"Yo'  ought  to  have  a  good  hunting  party  of  gentlemen 
down  here  for  a  few  weeks,  sir,  to  take  the  devil  out  of  the 
brutes,"  said  the  old  head  groom,  touching  his  hat  to  his 
master. 

"All  in  good  time — a Tell  me  your  name." 

"Hobbs,  sir,  at  your  sarvice." 

"Well,  Hobbs,  if  you  have  a  steady-going  horse,  have 
him  put  to  a  dogcart,  and  find  a  careful  boy  to  drive  Mr. 
Quin  to  the  village." 

"Yes,  sir.  Old  Dick  will  be  the  hoss  and  Young  Sandy 
the  driver.  I'll  go  and  give  the  order." 

The  groom  went  across  the  yard  on  his  errand,  while  Ran 
and  Dandy  walked  off  to  the  kennels  to  look  at  the  dogs. 


196  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

" Not  one  on  'em  to  be  compared  to  your  Tip  or  my  Lion, 
Mr.  Hay,  in  my  poor  opinion!"  said  Dandy. 

"These  cannot  excel  ours  in  courage,  or  affection,  or 
fidelity,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Ran. 

And  both  men  gave  deep  sighs  to  the  memory  of  the  faith 
ful  creatures  they  had  been  compelled  by  circumstances  to 
leave  behind  them  at  the  fort,  where,  it  is  true,  the  two  dogs 
were  sure  of  the  kindest  treatment  from  their  new  owners — 
Surgeon  Hill,  who  had  adopted  Tip,  and  Adjutant  Rose, 
who  had  taken  Lion. 

"Do  you  think  we  will  ever  see  them  again,  Mr.  Hay?" 

"Yes,  I  do.     In  this  world  or  the  next." 

"The  next!    Mr.  Hay,  sir!" 

"Why  not?  I  believe  the  creature  that  once  lives,  lives 
forever.  Especially  the  creature  capable  of  love,  courage, 
fidelity  and  self-sacrifice,  as  so  many  of  the  quadrupeds  are, 
must  be  immortal." 

What  Dandy  would  have  said  in  reply  was  arrested  on  his 
lips  by  the  approach  of  the  dogcart,  driven  by  one  of  the 
under-grooms. 

Ran  helped  his  old  friend  upon  the  seat,  tucked  the  rug 
well  over  his  knees  and  then  inquired: 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

"To  the  telescope  office  in  the  village." 

"Drive  this  gentleman  to  the  telegraph  office,"  said  Ran. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir;  but  there  is  no  telegraph  office  in  the 
village,  and  none  nearer  than  Chuxton,"  said  the  young 
groom,  touching  his  hat. 

"Oh  !  Chuxton  is  ten  miles  off !  Where  we  left  the  train 
last  night  you  know,  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Ran. 

"Yes,  I  know !  Well,  let  him  drive  me  there,  then !  That 
is  if  you  can  spare  the  carriage." 

"Of  course  I  can!    All  day,  if  you  want  it." 

"'Cause,  you  see,  I  don't  feel  aquil  to  traveling  all  the 
way  back  to  the  south  of  England,  after  having  come  all 
the  way  up  to  the  north,  and  I  do  want  to  see  my  niece  very 
bad.  And  I  mean  to  send  a  telescope  as  will  be  sartin  to 
fetch  her.  Yes,  that  is  so." 

"Very  well,  then.  Drive  to  Chuxton  telegraph  office,  and 
then  wherever  Mr.  Quin  wishes  to  go.  You  are  at  his 
orders." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  197 

The  boy  took  the  reins  and  drove  off,  and  Ran  turned 
again  to  question  the  old  groom. 

"Has  there  been,  much  sport  about  here?" 

"None  at  all,  sir.  Since  the  young  squire  were  killed,  the 
old  squire  never  had  no  heart  for  nothing  as  long  as  he 
lived." 

"Ah!    How  are  the  preserves?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  game  is  increasing  and  multiplying  to 
that  degree  for  the  want  of  sporting  gents  among  'em  to 
thin  'em  out,  that  for  once  in  a  way  poachers  is  a  blessing." 

"Poachers !  Why,  what  is  the  gamekeeper  about,  to  per 
mit  poachers  to  trespass  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  there  ain't  no  gamekeeper  here,  nor  likewise 
been  none  since  the  old  squire  died.  The  last  gamekeeper 
went  off  to  Australia  to  seek  his  fortune." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  breathed  Ran  with  fervency,  not  loud 
but  deep,  that  now  he  could  put  his  friend  in  office  without 
hurting  any  one's  feelings. 

"You  see,  it  was  this  a  way,  sir.  When  Kirby  went  to 
foreign  parts,  the  old  squire  was  too  ill  to  be  bothered  about 
his  successor,  and  after  he  died  the  place  was  left  without 
one.  But  surely,  sir,  Mr.  Prowt  wrote  to  you  about  all 
these  matters,  for  he  sartinly  told  me  as  you  had  wrote  back 
how  you  would  wait  till  you  come  down  here  in  person  to 
see  the  place  before  you  would  appoint  aither  gamekeeper 
or  coachman." 

"What!  has  the  coachman  gone  too?" 

"  Surely,  sir,  Mr.  Prowt  wrote  and  told  you  that,  too !  He 
left  to  better  himself,  so  he  said — took  sarvice  along  of  the 
Duke  of  Ambleton." 

"What  wages  do  you  get  as  groom  here,  Hobbs?" 

"Head  groom,  sir,  and  twenty  pund  a  year  and  my  keep, 
and  bin  in  the  famberly,  man  and  boy,  fifty  years,  and  hope 
to  continuate  in  it  for  fifty  more,  I  was  gwine  to  say,  but 
anyways  as  long  as  I  can  work,  and  that  will  be  as  long  as  I 
live,  for  I'd  scorn  to  retire." 

"Excellent,  Hobbs.     Have  you  a  family?" 

''Wife,  sir,  keeping  house  for  me  in.  the  cottage  there," 
said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  a  little  stone  cottage  built  in 
the  wall  next  the  stable,  "and  one  son,  sir — boy  that  driv 
the  dogcart.  Steady  lad,  sir,  though  his  feyther  says  it;  and 


198  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

one  darter,  sir,  upper  housemaid  at  the  Hall — good  girl, 
sir." 

"You  are  blessed  in  your  family,  Hobbs." 

"Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  sir!" 

"N"ow,  then,  you  said  your  wages  as  head  groom  were 
twenty  pound  a  year.  How  much  did  the  coachman  get?" 

"Just  twice  as  much,  sir,  forty  pound  a  year,  and  a  good 
sound  house  over  his  head,  and  his  livery  and  his  beer.  And 
left  all  that,  sir,  for  ten  pund  more,  and  gold  lace  on  his 
coat,  and  the  honor  of  driving  a  duke.  May  the  de'il  fly 
away  with  him  ! — begging' your  pardon,  sir." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  laughed  Ran.  "But  you  would  not 
have  left  Haymore  under  the  same  circumstances  ?" 

"Me! — why,  sir,  I  never  had  the  chance,  so  what  would 
be  the  use  of  boasting?  But,  indeed,  I  don't  think  I  would." 

"Hobbs,  can  you  drive?" 

"None  better  in  the  world,  sir,  though  I  say  it." 

"Then  you  shall  be  my  coachman  at  the  same  wages  that 
your  predecessor  now  gets  from  his  new  master,"  said  Ran, 
smiling  benignly  down  on  the  stupefied  face  of  the  man 
before  him. 

"Oh,  sir!  sir!  but  this  is  too  much,  too  much  for  poor 
me !  Such  a  permotion  as  to  be  coachman !  I  can  hardly 
believe  it,  sir !  I  can't,  indeed !  And  at  a  rise  of  wages, 
too !  I  can't  hardly  believe  it !"  droned  Hobbs,  fairly  dazed 
by  his  good  fortune. 

"Go  and  tell  your  wife,  then.  And  begin  to  see  about 
your  livery,  and  fix  up  the  coachman's  cottage — at  my  cost, 
Hobbs.  All  that  will  help  you  to  believe  it.  Good-day." 

With  these  words  the  gracious  young  master  loft  the 
stable  yard  and  walked  back  to  the  Hall,  happy  in  the  feel 
ing  of  having  made  others  so,  yet  grave  and  thoughtful  in 
the  recognition  of  his  responsibilities  for  all  who  were  de 
pendent  on  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  XEW  RECTOR 


WHEIST  Ran  entered  the  morning  room,  where  he  had  left 
his  friends,  he  found  them  all  there,  but  now  gathered  in 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  199 

a  wide  circle  around  the  glowing  sea  coal  fire  in  the  large 
open  grate,  listening  to  Longman,  who  was  giving  a  detailed 
account  of  his  visit  to  the  rectory  and  his  evening  with  his 
mother. 

Kan  drew  a  chair,  sat  down  among  them  and  made  one 
of  the  audience. 

When  the  speaker  had  finished  his  story  Ran  turned  to 
him  and  said : 

"Now,  Longman,  if  you  are  ready  you  may  tell  me  what 
you  meant  when  you  said  that  you  had  something  to  report 
in  reference  to  that  un dutiful  son  of  worthy  John  Legg," 
said  Ran. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  has  taken  ^holy  orders/  the  more  effec 
tually  to  serve  the  devil,  I  fear.  And  he  has  been  appointed 
by  his  brother-in-law  to  the  living  of  Haymore  parish, 
worth  six  hundred  pounds,  besides  the  rectory  and  glebe — 
all  of  which  is  in  your  gift,  Mr.  Hay." 

"Indeed!  And  who  the  mischief  is  the  gentleman's 
brother-in-law?"  demanded  Ean. 

"Who  but  the  fraudulent  claimant  of  Haymore?  Gentle 
man  Geff,  or  whatever  his  real  name  may  be  ?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Ran,  drawing  his  breath  hard.  "The 
plot  seems  to  thicken !  So  the  deceived  wife  of  our  Gentle 
man  Geff,  the  young  lady  upon  whom  we  have  all  wasted 
so  much  sympathy,  is  really  no  other  than  the  pretty  ad 
venturess  who  left  her  father  to  seek  her  fortune !  But  I 
think  we  heard  of  her  as  Lamia  Leegh." 

"Well,"  said  Longman,  "it  would  appear  that  when 
brother  and  sister  left  honest  John  Legg,  their  shopkeeping 
father,  they  must  have  changed  the  spelling  of  their  names 
from  plain  Legg  to  mystic  Leegh.  The  latter  has  a  more 
aristocratic  sound,  you  know.  At  any  rate,  their  name  was 
Legg;  yet  you  heard  of  the  girl  as  Leegh,  and  certainly  the 
letter  of  the  man  to  Mr.  Campbell  was  signed  Leegh — 
Cassius  Leegh." 

"What  did  the  fellow  write  to  Mr.  Campbell  about?" 

"Oh,  to  warn  him  to  leave  the  rectory,  as  he  himself  had 
been  appointed  to  the  living  and  should  enter  upon  his  office 
in  January,  after  which  he  should  not  require  the  assistance 
of  a  curate." 

"In-deed!"  again  exclaimed  Ran.    "I  think  the  fraudu- 


200  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

lent  claimant  is  giving  away  the  Haymore  patronage  in  a 
very  reckless  way !" 

Longman  laughed. 

"Let  us  see  now  how  the  case  stands.  The  plot  thickens 
so  fast  that  it  requires  a  little  clearing.  The  Eev.  Mr. 
Campbell  was  called  to  Haymore  to  fill  the  pulpit  of  the 
late-  Dr.  Orton  during  the  absence  of  the  latter  at  Cannes, 
and  remains  in  the  office  at  a  low  salary  until  a  rector  is 
appointed  to  the  living.  And  my  substitute,  the  fraudulent* 
claimant,  has  appointed  his  unworthy  brother-in-law,  who 
has  warned  the  good  curate  to  leave.  Have  I  stated  the 
case  correctly?" 

"Quite  so>  said  Will  Walling. 

"Very  well,  then.  And  we  expect  the  three  worthies, 
Gentleman  Geff,  Miss  Legg  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Legg,  calling 
themselves  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  and  the  Rev.  Cas- 
sius  Leegh,  all  in  full  feather,  here  this  evening !  We  must 
be  prepared  for  them.  Gentleman  Geff  must  be  confronted 
with  the  wife  he  deserted  and  the  friend  he  assassinated. 
Oh,  that  Miss  Legg  might  be  met  by  her  f orsaken  father ! 
That  is  barely  possible  if  John  Legg  should  take  the  train 
for  Chuxton  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  Dandv'^  tele 
gram,  and  come  with  his  wife !  And  the  Rev.  Mr.  Leegh 
shall  be  received  by — the  rector  of  Havmore  !  But  that  last 
item  necessitates  prompt  action.  Longman,  come  into  the 
librnrv  Tn'th  me,  will  you?" 

The  hunter  arose  and  followed  Ran  upstairs  and  into  the 
library,  where  they  sat  down  at  a  table  on  which  stood  pen, 
ink  and  paper. 

"Longman,"  said  Ran,  "would  it  suit  you  to  be  game 
keeper  of  Haymore?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Hay,  it  would  make  me  the  hapipest  man.  on 
earth !  But  T  really  would  not  wish  you  to  give  me  the 
place  at  another  man's  expense." 

"Never  fear;  it  will  be  at  no  man's  expense  in  the  sense 
you  mean.  There  has  been  no  gamekeeper  at  Haymore  for 
a  year  past.  The  last  one  left  to  seek  his  fortune  in  Aus 
tralia,  and  no  successor  has  yet  been  appointed.  The  place 
is  yours  if  you  will  have  it.  Indeed,  you  would  please  me 
much  by  taking  it." 

"Indeed,  then,  I  will  take  it,  sir,  with  many  thanks/' 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  SOI 

exclaimed  the  hunter  warmly,  his  whole  face  glowing  with 
the  sincere  delight  he  felt. 

"Then  that  is  settled.  Get  the  keys  from  the  bailiff  and 
examine  the  cottage  and  have  it  fitted  up  for  yourself  and 
your  mother  in  the  most  comfortable  manner  and  send  the 
bills  to  the  bailiff." 

"I  will,  Mr.  Hay.  You  have  made  me  very  happy,  for 
my  mother's  sake  as  well  as  my  own.  We  both  owe  you 
hearty  thanks !" 

"Don't  speak  of  thanks  again,  Longman.  The  man  who 
saved  my  life  can  never  owe  me  thanks  for  anything  that  I 
may  have  the  happiness  of  doing  for  him.  Now  to  speak 
of  another  matter.  Will  you  kindly  take  a  letter  for  me  to 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  with  great  pleasure." 

"Take  a  book,  then,  or  amuse  yourself  in  any  way  you 
please,  while  I  write  it,"  said  Ran/ 

Longman  arose  and.  roamed  about  before  the  bookcases, 
reading  the  titles  of  the  imprisoned  volumes  until  he  was 
tired  of  the  amusement.  None  of  the  books  attracted  him. 
He  was  not  a  bookman. 

"I  have  finished  my  letter  now,  Longman,  if  you  are 
ready  to  take  it,"  said  Ran.  folding  and  sealing  the  note  in 
which  he  had  invited  Mr.  Campbell  to  come  with  his  wife 
and  daughter  to  dine  with  himself  and  Mrs.  Hay  that  eve 
ning  and  confer  about  the  reverend  gentleman's  appoint 
ment  to  the  living  of  Haymore. 

"I  am  quite  ready,  sir,"  said  Longman,  and  he  took  the 
letter  and  put  it  in  his  breast  pocket  and  left  the  library. 

He  had  scarcely  gone  when  a  footman  entered  and  said : 

"If  you  please,  sir,  the  bailiff.  Mr.  Prowt,  is  here,  asking 
to  °op  von." 

"Let  him  come  in  here/'  said  Ran  with  a  smile. 

A  moment  later  the  bailiff  entered,  took  off  his  hat,  bowed 
profoundly  to  the  young  squire,  and  stood  waiting. 

"Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Prowt,  if  you  please.  You  wished  to 
see  me,  I  am  told,"  said  Ran  pleasantly,  though  hardly  able 
to  control  the  smile  that  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
and  lips. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  bailiff,  sitting  down  and  placing 
his  hat  on  the  floor  between  his  feet. 

"Well?"  inquired  Ran  after  an  awkward  pause. 


202  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Well,  squire,  if  there  is  anything  amiss  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  it.  I  really  did  not  expect  you  down  last  evening, 
and  made  no  preparations  to  meet  you.  I  am  told  by  the 
head  groom  that  there  was  no  carriage  sent  to  the  station  at 
Chuxton." 

"It  does  not  matter  in  the  least,  Mr.  Prowt,"  said  Kan 
with  a  boyish  twinkle  in  his  eyes  that  he  could  not  suppress. 
"Oh,  yes,  begging  your  pardon,  squire,  but  it  matters 
very  much.  I  wish  to  set  myself  right  with  you,  sir.  I  wish 
to  tell  you  that  it  was  all  the  neglect  and  carelessness  of 
them  telegraph  people  in  Chuxton  not  forwarding  your  dis 
patch  in  time.  You  must,  in  course,  sent  it  yesterday  morn 
ing  to  announce  your  arrival  in  the  evening,  but  T  never  got 
it  until  this  blessed  morning,  when  I  thought  that  it  was 
this  evening  you  were  coming.  And  I  did  not  know  any 
better  until  I  came  over  here  and  stopped  at  the  stable  to 
tell  Hobbs  to  be  sure  to  send  the  chariot  to  meet  you.  And 
he  told  me  that  you  were  already  here — that  you  had  ar 
rived  last  night.  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  so  knocked  over 
in  my  life.  And  no  one  to  meet  you !  And  no  ceremonies 
befitting  the  reception  of  the  Squire  of  Haymore  and  his 
bride!" 

"It  is  all  right.  Don't  trouble  yourself,"  said  Ran,  now 
laughing  outright.  "Come  and  dine  with  me  this  evening." 

Prowt  stared  for  a  moment  before  answering.  Never  in 
the  memory  of  man  had  a  bailiff  been  invited  to  dine  with  a 
squire  of  Haymore.  Then  he  reflected  that  the  young  heir 
had  been  found  in  America,  and  that  America  was  a  very 
democratic  and  republican  part  of  the  world,  and  that  would 
account  for  the  free  and  easy  ways  of  the  new  squire.  Only 
the  bailiff  was  afraid  Mr.  Hav  mifrht  be  s-oin<r  to  a«k  the 
butler  and  the  head  groom  to  dine  with  him,  also :  and  that 
the  bailiff  could  not  stand.  If  he  had  never  dined  with  the 
squire,  neither  had  he  ever  dined  with  butler  or  srroom. 
While  he  hesitated,  Ban,  misunderstanding  his  perplexity, 
said  kindly : 

"An  informal  dinner,  Prowt.  Onlv  the  clergyman  and 
his  wife  and  daughter,  my  solicitor,  my  brother-in-law,  two 
friends  from  America,  Mrs.  Hay  and  myself." 

Prowt  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "You  do  me  great  honor. 
When  shall  I  bring  my  books  for  your  examination  ?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"  Not  this  week,  Prowt.  This  is  Thursday.  No  business 
until  Monday." 

"Just  as  you  pleaes,  sir,"  said  the  bailiff,  picking  up  his 
hat  and  rising. 

And  without  more  words  he  bowed  himself  out  of  the 
library. 

Ran  went  downstairs  and  rejoined  his  friends  in  the 
morning  room,  and  entertained  them  with  an  account  of  his 
interview  with  the  bailiff. 

"My  chief  reason  for  asking  him  to  dinner,"  concluded 
the  young  man,  "was  that  he  might  be  present  this  evening 
to  assist  us  in  receiving  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gentleman  Geff  and 
their  esteemed  brother  and  brother-in-law." 

At  this  moment  the  luncheon  bell  rang,  and  the  whole 
party  went  across  the  hall  to  the  small  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TWO  SCENES 

COULD  any  member  of  the  party  gathered  at  Haymore 
Hall  have  been  gifted  with  clairvoyance,  he  or  she  might 
have  witnessed  in  succession  two  scenes  on  that  morning  of 
December  the  loth,  distant,  indeed,  in  space,  but  near  in 
interest  to  the  household. 

The  first  scene  was  in  a  greengrocers  shop  in  Holly 
Street,  Medge. 

A  tall,  spare,  gray-haired  and  grave-looking  man,  of  fifty 
years  or  upward,  stood  behind  his  counter  waiting  for 
morning  customers,  for  it  was  still  early. 

A  blue-coated  telegraph  boy  hurried  in,  put  a  blue  en 
velope  in  his  hand,  and  laid  an  open  book  on  the  counter, 
saying :  ^ 

"A  dispatch,  Mr.  Legg;  please  sign." 

The  astonished  John  Legg,  who  had  never  received  a 
telegram  in  the  half  century  of  his  whole  life,  and  now 
feared  that  this  one  must  herald  some  well-merited  mis 
fortune  to  his  unloving  and  undutiful  but  beloved  son  or 
daughter,  nervously  scrawled  his  name  in  the  boy's  book 
and  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read : 


204  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"HAYMORE,  CFFUXTOX,  YORKSHIRE, 

December  15,  18—. 

"To  MR.  JOTIN  LEGG,  Medge,  Hantz:  I  have  just  come 
from  America ;  want  to  see  my  niece ;  am  not  able  to  travel. 
Let  her  come  to  me  immediately.  It  will  be  to  her  advan 
tage.  ANDREW  Quix." 

With  a  gasp  of  relief  that  this  message  was  no  herald  of 
misfortune,  but  rather  possibly  of  good  fortune,  honest  John 
hurried  with  it  into  the  back  parlor,  where  his  wife — a  red- 
cheeked,  blue-eyed,  brown-haired,  buxom  woman  of  forty  or 
more — sat  sewing,  and  said : 

"Here,  Juley !  Bead  this !  What  does  it  mean  ?  Who  is 
Andrew  Quin?" 

And  he  thrust  the  dispatch  into  her  hand. 

Her  eyes  devoured  it,  and  then  she  answered : 

"Why,  it  is  from  my  dear  old  Uncle  Dandy.  He  went 
out  to  the  gold  fields  in  California  about  twenty  years  ago, 
and  we  have  never  heard  from  him  since.  And  now  he  has 
just  come  back,  and  rich  as  Croesus,  of  course !  And  I  am 
the  only  relation  he  has  in  the  whole  world  !  And  he  wants 
to  see  me.  And  he  isn't  able  to  travel.  And  he  may  be  at 
death's  door,  poor,  dear  old  fellow.  John  Legg,  when  does 
the  next  northbound  train  stop  here?" 

"Why,  I  believe  there's  a  parliamentary  stops  here  at— 
let  me  see — nine  o'clock,"  answered  the  greengrocer,  slowly 
collecting  his  ideas,  that  had  been  scattered  by  the  intense 
excitement  of  his  wife. 

"Then  we  must  go  by  it !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Legg,  jumping 
to  her  feet  and  beginning  immediately  to  lock  up  cupboards 
and  set  back  chairs. 

"What!"  cried  John  Legg,  aghast  at  this  impetuosity. 

"We  must  £0  by  it,  or  he  may  be  dead  before  we  get 
there,  and  his  hospital  left  to  fortunes !"  exclaimed  Julia  in 
such  trepidation  that  she  reversed  her  words  and  never  per 
ceived  that  she  did  so,  nor,  in  his  bewilderment,  did  John. 

"But  we  haven't  half  an  hour  to  get  ready  in!"  he 
pleaded. 

"We  must  get  ready  in  less  time!"  cried  Mrs.  Legor, 
turning  to  run  up  the  stairs  that  led  from  one  corner  of 
the  back  room. 

"  What'll  I  do  about  the  shop  ?"  called  John  in  dismay. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  205 

"Leave  it  to  the  boy  a  day  or  two,"  replied  Julia  from 
the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Everything  will  go  to  rack  and  ruin !"  cried  the  green 
grocer. 

"John  Legg!"  demanded  his  wife,  rushing  down  the 
stairs  fully  equipped  for  the  journey  with  bonnet  and  big 
shawl,  an  umbrella  and  bag  in  hand — "do  you  mean  for  the 
sake  of  a  paltry,,  two-penny-ha'-penny  shop,  not  worth  fifty 
pounds,  to  risk  an  immense  fortune,  that  will  make  you  a 
millionaire,  or  a  silver  or  a  gold  king,  or  a  brown  answer 
(bonanza?),  or  something  of  the  sort?" 

"  'A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush/  my  dear," 
said  the  man. 

"Jedehiah  Judkins,  come  here  and  bring  vour  niter's 
overcoat!  And,  Jed,  do  you  mind  the  shop  well  while  we 
are  gone,  and  get  Widow  Willet's  Bob  to  come  and  help 
you,  and  Til  pay  him  and  give  you  half  a  sovereign  if  we 
find  all  right  when  we  come  back  Saturday  night,"  said 
Mrs,  Legg. 

The  boy,  who  had  just  come  in  with  his  empty  basket 
from  delivering  vegetables  about  the  town,  hastened  with 
big  eyes  into  the  back  room  to  obey  his  mistress'  orders. 

John  Legg  submitted.  He  always  did.  Julia  went  about 
fastening  doors  and  windows,  and  lastly  raking  out  and 
covering  up  the  fire. 

Then  leaving  only  the  key  of  the  front  door  with  "the 
boy,"  the  pair  left  the  house  and  hurried  to  the  station, 
where  they  were  just  in  time  to  buv  their  tickets  and  jump 
into  a  second-class  carriage.  And  before  John  LPO-OT  "Had 
time  to  recover  his  routed  and  dispersed  mental  faculties 
thev  were  whirled  halfway  to  London. 

"You  are  the  most  energetic  woman  T  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  Julia  !"  he  said,  trving  to  understand  the  situation. 

"Need  to  ho  when  there  is  a  brown  answer  fortune,  and 
a  silver  kingdom,  if  not  a  gold  one,  in  the  question — yes, 
and  a  dear,  dying  uncle,  too !" 

"I^wonder  if  the  boy  will  remember  to  take  that  celery  to 
the  vicarage  when  the  market  gardener  brings  it  this  after 
noon  ?" 

"Oh,  bother  the  celery,  and  the  vicar,  too !  Think  of  the 
silver  and  gold  kingdom — and — yes,  of  course,  the  poor, 
dear,  dying  uncle!"  said  Julia.  And  onward  they  flew 


206  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

northward  toward  Yorkshire,  unconscious  that  they  were 
destined  to  take  a  part  in  a  very  memorable  drama  to  be 
enacted  at  Haymore  Hall. 

The  other  scene  connected  with  the  same  drama,  and 
which  the  clairvoyant  might  have  looked  in  upon,  was  the 
elegant  private  parlor  at  Langham's  Hotel,  where  the  coun 
terfeit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Cassius  Leegh  sat  at  an  early  breakfast. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Gentleman  Geff  and  his 
"lady"  are  familiar  to  our  readers.  That  of  the  Rev.  Cas 
sius  Leegh  may  be  described.  He  resembled  his  sister. 
Nature  had  given  him  a  very  handsome  form  and  face,  but 
sin  had  marred  both. 

On  this  morning  both  men  looked  bad  ;  their  faces  were 
pallid,  their  eves  red,  their  hands  shaky,  their  voices  husky, 
their  nerves  "shattered,"  their  tempers  —  infernal! 

Gentleman  Geff  had  plunged  into  the  gulf  of  dissipation 
to  drown  remorse.  And  the  last  two  months  of  lawless 
deviltry  in  the  French  capital  had  made  of  him  a  mental 
and  TVhvqirnl  wreck. 

His  "reverend"  brother-in-law  was  not  far  above  him  in 
the  path  that  leads  down  to  perdition. 

Mrs.  Gentleman  Geff  was  as  well  as  serene,  and  as  beau 
tiful  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  be  under  her  adverse  cir- 


Bnt  then,  being  the  woman  that  she  was,  she^had  much 
to  Console  her.  She  had  come  from  Paris  enriched  with 
TrirKa  phawlp.  velvet  and  satin  dresses,  laces  and  jewels 
which  misrht  have  been  the  envy  of  a  duchess. 

She  wore  her  traveling  suit  of  navy  bine  poplin,  for  they 
were  to  take  an  earlv  train  for  Yorkshire  immediately  after 
breakfast.  She  performed  her  duties  as  hostess  at  break 
fast  with  perfect  self-possession,  though  often  under  great 


. 

"When  you  are  settled  at  the  rectory  you  will,  of  course, 
bring  down  Mrs.  Leegh  and  the  children.  I  am  quite  long 
ing  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  my  sweet  sister-in-law  and 
her  little  ones,"  said  Lamia  softly. 

"I  don't  know,"  sulkily  replied  her  brother.  "It's  a  bad 
time  —  in  midwinter  —  to  move  children  from  the  mild  cli 
mate  of  Somerset  to  the  severe  one  of  York." 

"Look  here  !"  angrily  and  despotically  exclaimed  Gentle- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  207 

man  Geff.  "I  won't  have  it!  You've  got  to  bring  'em, 
climate  or  no  climate,  or  you're  no  parson  for  my  parish ! 
It  was  well  enough  when  you  were  rollicking  and  carousing 
'round  Paris  to  leave  your  wife  and  kids  with  your  father- 
in-law  in  Somerset,  but  when  you're  settled  in  Haymore 
rectory  you  have  got  to  have  'em  with  you.  It  would  be 
deuced  disreputable  to  have  you,  the  pastor  of  a  parish, 
living  in  one  place  and  your  wife  and  children  in  another. 
And  I  don't  want  any  reverend  reprobates  around  me,  I  can 
tell  you  that  much !" 

"You  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain,  Mr.  Hay,"  replied 
Cassius  Leegh,  controlling  his  temper  and  speaking  coolly, 
though  his  blood  was  boiling  with  rage  at  the  insult,  for 
which  he  would  have  liked  to  knock  his  "patron"  down. 

"I  think  it  is  time  to  go." 

Gentleman  Geff  arose,  muttering  curses  at  all  and  sundry 
persons  and  things,  flung  his  pocketbook  at  Mr.  Leegh  and 
told  him  to  go  down  to  the  office  and  settle  the  bill  and 
order  a  cab. 

Half  an  hour  later  Gentleman  Geff  and  his  companions 
were  seated  in  a  compartment  of  a  first-class  carriage,  flying 
northward  as  fast  as  the  mail  train  could  carry  them. 

My  gentlemen's  valet  and  my  lady's  raaid  traveled  by  the 
second  class  of  the  same  train. 

Gentleman  Geff  made  himself  as  disagreeable  to  his  fellow 
travelers  as  shattered  nerves  and  bad  temper  could  drive  him 
to  be,  and  as  the  hours  passed  he  became  so  unendurable  as 
to  tax  to  the  utmost  the  forbearance  of  his  victims,  who  re 
joiced  when  the  day  of  torture  drew  to  a  close  and  their 
train  steamed  into  the  station  at  Chuxton  and  stopped. 

They  all  go  out  and  sood  on  the  platform.  The  train 
started  again  and  steamed  northward.  Gentleman  Geff 
looked  around  for  his  state  carriage  and  four.  There  was 
none  visible.  He  began  to  curse  and  swear. 

"Come  into  the  waiting-room,  dearest,"  said  Lamia 
sweetly.  "No  doubt  your  carriage  will  be  here  in  a  few 
moments." 

"It  should  be  here  now,  waiting.  I'll  be !" 

(with  a  terrible  oath)  "if  I  don't  discharge  every 

of  them  as  soon  as  I  get  to  Haymore!"  he  added  as  he  led 
the  way  into  the  building  and  sat  down,  not  to  please  Lamia, 


208  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

but  to  rest  himself,  for  bodily  weakness  was  one  other  of 
the  bad  effects  of  his  intemperance. 

There  were  but  two  other  passengers  besides  Gentleman 
Geff's  party  who  got  out  at  Chuxton. 

These  were  a  middle-aged  couple,  who  walked  arm  in  arm 
to  the  Tawny  Lion  Tavern,  engaged  the  only  carriage  there, 
and  drove  on  to  Haymore  Hall. 

These  were,  of  course,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Legg. 

Gentleman  Geff  and  his  friends  waited  and  waited,  the 
maid  or  the  valet  going  out  at  intervals  to  see  if  the  car 
riage  from  Haymore  Hall  had  come,  or  was  coming,  Gentle 
man  Geff  cursing  and  swearing  freely  in  the  interim. 

At  last  he  burst  cut  with  a  fearful  oath,  adding : 

"We  can't  wait  here  all  night,  Leegh — and  be  to 

you !  Be  off  with  yourself  to  the  Black  Lion,  or  the  Brown 
Bear,  whatever  the  beastly  tavern  is  called,  and  see  if  you 
can  get  a  fly." 

The  Eev.  Cassius,  glad  enough  to  get  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  his  worthy  brother-in-law  and  patron,  hurried 
off  to  the  Tawny  Lion,  and  made  such  haste  that  he  soon  re 
turned  with  the  fly,  which  had  already  taken  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  Legg  to  Haymore  Hall  and  had  just  come  back  to 
the  inn. 

With  many  threats,  sealed  by  terrific  oaths,  of  extirpation 
of  all  the  domestic  establishment  at  the  Hall,  Gentleman 
Geff  entered  the  carriage  with  his  party  and  drove  off  to 
meet  Nemesis  at  Haymore  Hall. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AN  AREIVAL  AT  HAYMORE 

WHEN  the  curate  burst  into  his  wife's  sitting-room  with 
the  joyful  news  that  he  was  to  be  the  Vicar  of  Haymore, 
his  impetuous  delight  was  not  inspired  by  family  affection 
alone,  although  he  was  deeply  sensible  of  the  benefits  his  be 
loved  ones  would  derive  from  the  commodious  house  and 
grounds  and  the  liberal  income  attached  to  the  living ;  but 
he  was  relieved  and  satisfied  to  know  that  his  new  flock,  in 
whom  he  had  already  become  interested,  would  not  be 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  209 

turned  over  to  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  he  knew  Cassius 
Leegh  to  be. 

Mrs.  Campbell  received  his  news  with  a  stare  of  stupe 
faction. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  inquired  at  length. 

"I  mean  that  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay — the  real  Mr.  Randolph 
Hay — the  real  Squire  of  Haymore — has  offered  me  the  liv 
ing  of  Haymore,  which  is  in  his  gift,  and  has  invited  me  to 
dine  with  him  this  evening  to  talk  over  the  affair,  and 
begged  me  to  waive  ceremony  and  bring  my  wife  and  daugh 
ter  with  me  to  meet  his  wife  and  friends.  And  this  he  asks 
as  a  particular  favor,  for  particular  reasons  which  shall  be 
explained  when  we  meet,  he  adds.  Of  course  I  shall  go,  and 
you  will  both  accompany  me,"  he  concluded. 

"  Of  course  we  will,"  readily  responded  Hetty. 

"Oh,  papa!"  exclaimed  Jennie  in  dismay. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  my  dear?" 

"Nothing.  But,  oh,  papa,  if  I  might  only  remain  at 
home !" 

"Jennie,  dear,  would  you  disoblige  a  man  who  is  about 
to  confer  a  great  benefit  upon  you  ?" 

"  Not  for  the  world,  papa.  I  will  go  if  you  think  my  fail 
ure  to  do  so  would  displease  Mr.  Hay." 

"I  do  not  think  it  would  'displease'  him  in  the  sense  of 
angering  him,  my  dear;  for,  by  Longman's  account,  he  is 
one  of  the  most  amiable  and  considerate  of  men ;  but  I  do 
think,  from  the  tone  of  his  note,  that  it  would  disappoint 
him,  for  evidently  he  has  a  very  strong  motive  for  wanting 
our  presence  at  Haymore." 

"  Then  certainly  I  will  go.  But  have  you  any  idea,  papa, 
what  that  motive  can  be  ?" 

"I  think  I  have,  my  dear.  You  know  that  he  who  is  now 
in  possession  is  the  rightful  squire.  But  surely  you  have 
not  forgotten  that  the  fraudulent  claimant  has  been  daily 
expected  for  a  week  past." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Hetty  and  Jennie  in  a  breath. 

"Well,  he  is  certainly  on  his  way  to  the  Hall  this  after 
noon,  and  without  a  suspicion  that  the  rightful  owner  of 
Haymore  is  in  possession." 

"Oh,  Jim!" 

"Oh,  papa!" 


210  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

These  exclamations  broke  simultaneously  from  the  lips 
of  mother  and  daughter. 

"Yes,,  my  dear  ones;  the  felon,  when  he  shall  enter  the 
Hall  to  take  possession,  as  he  will  think,  of  his  stolen  estate, 
will  be  confronted  by  the  friend  he  treacherously  assassin 
ated  and  plundered  and  left  for  dead  to  be  devoured  by  the 
wolves  of  the  Black  Woods  in  California,  eight  months  ago." 

"Oh,  Jim!" 

"Oh,  papa!" 

"It  is  a  terrible  story,  my  dear  ones,  as  Longman  has  told 
it.  But  retribution  is  at  hand." 

"And  do  you  think,  Jim,  that  Mr.  Hay  also  wants  the 
bigamist  to  be  confronted  by  his  forsaken  wife?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  think  he  does." 

"Oh,  papa  !  papa  !"  cried  Jennie,  turning  pale. 

"My  dear,  you  met  the  man  on  the  steamer  when  you 
were  alone  and  you  were  not  afraid  of  him.  If  you  meet 
him  at  Haymore  you  will  be  on  my  arm."  said  the  curate  in 
a  reassuring  tone. 

"And  on  your  arm  I  shall  fear  nothing,  papa,  dear !  And 
now  I  will  not  distress  you  any  more  by  my  nervous  fancies. 
I  will  go,  papa,  and  behave  as  well  as  I  can." 

"That  is  my  good,  brave  girl!" 

"And — I  know — Mrs.  Longman  will  take  good  care  of 
baby  while  we  are  gone,"  said  Jennie  in  a  tone  of  confidence, 
but  with  a  look  of  doubt. 

"  Of  course  she  will !  There  can  be  no  mistake  there ! 
She  will  take  better  care  of  little  Essie  than  you  or  I  could 
with  our  best  endeavors.  'Why?' — do  you  ask? — because 
she  is  an  experienced  nurse  and  a  conscientious  woman — 
and  a  tender  mother!  Are  those  reasons  enough?"  de 
manded  Hetty,  laughing. 

Jennie  nodded. 

The  proposed  visit  to  Haymore  Hall  had  for  its  suspected 
object  a  very  grave  and  important  matter.  Yet  these  two 
women  began  immediately  to  think  of  the  trifling  items — 
what  they  should  wear ! 

It  is  always  so !  Whether  a  woman  is  to  be  married  or 
executed,  her  toilet  seems  to  be  an  affair  of  the  most  serious 
consideration. 

Mary  Stuart's  dress  was  as  artistically  arranged  for  the 
block  as  ever  it  had  been  for  her  bridals. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Jennie's  big  trunk  was  unlocked  and  invaded.  She  had 
several  dresses,  gifts  from  her  generous  friends  in  New 
York,  much  handsomer  than  Hetty  had  ever  possessed ;  and 
mother  and  daughter  were  near  enough  of  a  size  to  make 
any  dress  in  the  collection  fit  either. 

Hetty,  having  her  choice,  selected  a  mazarine  blue  satin, 
trimmed  with  deep  flounces  of  Spanish  lace,  which  very 
well  suited  her  fair,  rosy  face  and  sunny  brown  hair.  Jennie 
chose  a  ruby  silk,  trimmed  with  fringe  of  the  same  color, 
which  well  set  off  her  rich  brunette  complexion,  dark  eyes 
and  dark  hair. 

On  ordinary  occasions  of  neighborly  visiting  for  so  short 
a  distance  as  that  between  the  parsonage  and  the  Hall  the 
curate  and  his  wife  and  daughter  would  have  walked,  but 
with  such — to  them — grand  toilets,  the  two  women  required 
a  carriage,  which  now,  with  his  improved  prospects,  Mr. 
Campbell  could  well  afford. 

So  a  passing  boy  was  called  from  the  road  and  dispatched 
to  the  Red  Fox  to  engage  Nahum  with  his  mare  "Miss 
Nancy.'*  and  the  nonedscript  vehicle  called  by  the  proprietor 
a  "fly,"  by  the  curate  a  "carryall."  and  by  the  village  boys 
a  "shandy-ray-dan." 

At  precisely  six  o'clock  this  imposing  conveyance  was  at 
the  gate  of  the  parsonage  waiting  for  the  parson  and  his 
party. 

Meanwhile,  at  Haymore  Hall,  preparations  were  com 
pleted  for  the  reception  of  the  most  incompatible  company 
that  ever  could  be  gathered  together. 

Let  us  take  a  look  at  the  people  in  the  house  and  at  the 
guests  they  were  expecting 

First,  as  to  the  inmates,  there  were  Ran  and  Judy — Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay — their  solicitor,  Mr.  Will  Walling; 
their  brother,  young  Michael  Man;  the  hunter,  Samson 
Longman,  and  the  old  miner,  Andrew  Quin. 

The  three  last-mentioned  men — Man.  Longman  and  Quin 
— could  all  swear  to  the  identity  of  the  squire  in  possession 
as  the  real  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  and  to  the  fraudulent  claim 
ant  as  an  adventurer  known  to  them  by  the  name  of  Geoffrey 
Delamere  and  the  nickname  of  Gentleman  Geff. 

To  this  party  was  coming  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell  and 
their  daughter,  Mrs.  Montgomery,  who  could  all  testify  to 
the  identity  of  the  same  fraudulent  claimant  and  bigamous 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

bridegroom,,  as  an  ex-captain  of  foot  in  her  majesty's  serv 
ice,  whom  they  had  known  and  who  had  married  Jennie 
Campbell  under  his  real  name  of  Kightly  Montgomery. 

And  also  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Legg,  who  could  certainly 
point  out  the  deceived  "bride,"  the  so-called  Mrs.  Randolph 
Hay,  once  called  Miss  Lamia  Leegh,  as  their  daughter, 
Lydia  Legg,  and  the  clerical  impostor,  the  Rev.  Cassius 
Leegh,  as  their  son  Clay  Legg. 

All  these  hosts  and  guests  would  make  up  the  receiving 
party  who,  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  would  be  waiting 
to  welcome  Gentleman  Geff,  his  lady  and  her  brother. 

At  six  o'clock  the  resident  party  in  the  Hall  were  gath 
ered  in  the  drawing-room  in  full  evening  dress,  waiting  for 
their  guests. 

Judy  wore  her  wedding  dress  of  cream-colored  silk, 
trimmed  with  duchess  lace,  but  without  the  veil  or  orange 
flowers,  and  with  pearl  jewelry  instead.  It  was  the  prettiest, 
if  not  the  only  proper  dress  for  the  occasion  that  she  pos 
sessed,  her  wardrobe  being  but  a  schoolgirl's  outfit. 

Ran  also  wore  his  wedding  suit,  because — but  will  this 
be  believed  of  the  young  squire  of  Haymore? — it  was  the 
only  dress  suit  with  which  the  careless  young  fellow  had  as 
yet  thought  to  provide  himself ! 

Mike,  Dandy  and  Longman  wore,  also,  each  his  "mar 
riage  garment,"  which  had  been  provided  for  Ran's  and 
Judy's  wedding,  and  for  the  like  reason — that  they  had  no 
others  for  full  dress  occasions. 

Will  Walling,  being  the  dude  of  dudes  in  society,  had  a 
choice  among  a  score  of  evening  suits,  so  much  alike  that 
none  but  a  connoisseur  could  have  seen  any  difference  be 
tween  them.  He  wore  one  of  these. 

"Sort  of  ser'ous  time,  Mr.  Walling,"  said  old  Dandy,  who 
found  himself  seated  next  to  Mr.  Will  near  the  great  open 
fire. 

"Don't  see  why  it  should  be  for  you,  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Will 
Walling. 

"No?  Don't  ee,  now?    Well,  I  allus  did  hate  a  furse." 
"Fuss?    Why,  there  will  not  be  any." 
Ran,  Judy,  Mike  and  Longman,  who  were  standing  in 
the  front  bay  window  looking  out  upon  the  drive  and  chat 
ting  together,  now  came  sauntering  up  to  the  fire. 
Ran  inquired: 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Dandy?" 
"He  is  afraid  there  will  be  a  'furse/  "  gravely  replied 
Will  Walling. 

Ean  burst  out  laughing. 

Before  the  peals  of  his  mirth  subsided,  heavy,  rumbling, 
tumbling  wheels  were  heard  on  the  drive,,  and  the  "shandy- 
ray-dan"  drew  up  before  the  Hall  door. 

The  mirthful  group  composed  themselves  to  receive  their 
first  guests. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  footman,  who  announced: 
"The  Eev.  Mr.   Campbell,  Mrs.   Campbell,  Mrs.  Mont 
gomery." 

And  the  party  from  the  parsonage  entered  the  drawing- 
room. 

Ran  and  Judy  went  to  meet  them. 
"The  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell?"  said  Ran  interrogatively  as  he 
offered  his  hand  to  the  curate. 
Mr.  Campbell  bowed  assent. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  Mrs.  Campbell,  I  pre 
sume?  And  Mrs.  Montgomery,  also?  Ladies,  I  am  very 
happy  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Permit  me  to  present 
you  to  Mrs.  Hay,"  said  Ran. 

And  when  this  and  all  the  other  introductions  were  over 
and  they  were  seated  near  the  great  open  fire  that  the  chill 
of  the  December  evening  made  so  welcome  as  well  as  so 
necessary,  Mrs.  Campbell,,  observing  Judy's  painful,  blush 
ing  shyness,  and  attributing  it  all  only  to  her  extreme  youth 
and  inexperience,  and  not  at  all  to  the  conscious  ignorance 
that  she  did  not  expect  in  the  young  bride,  addressed  con 
versation  to  her  and  tried  to  draw  her  out. 

But  Judy  blushed  and  fidgeted  and  answered  only  in 
monosyllables.  She  was  so  absurdly  afraid  of  falling  into 
that  dialect  which  some  of  her  friends  thought  one  of  the 
quaintest,  sweetest  charms  about  her. 

"You  have  lived  most  of  your  life  in  America?"  said 
Mrs.  Campbell,  rather  as  stating  a  fact  than  putting  a 
question. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  breathed  Judy. 

"I  have  never  seen  America,  but  my  daughter  here  spent 
several  months  over  there,  and  I  think  she  was  very  much 
pleased  with  the  country  and  the  people — eh,  Jennie?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

inquird  Mrs.  Campbell  with  the  intention  of  drawing  Mrs. 
Montgomery  into  the  conversation. 

"Yes,  I  was,  indeed.  Everybody  was  so  kind  to  me,"  re- 
plied  the  young  woman  so  heartily  that  Judy  felt  immedi 
ately  drawn  toward  her,  and  thenceforth  the  intercourse  of 
the  three  became  easier. 

Mr.  Campbell,  to  promote  a  good,  social  understanding, 
also  contrived  to  introduce  the  subject  of  mining  in  the  gold 
fields  of  California.  And  here  all  his  companions  were,  so 
to  speak,  at  home.  Every  one,  except  the  curate's  party,  had 
something  to  contribute  of  instruction  upon  this  matter. 
Even  Judy  forgot  her  fear  of  falling  into  dialect,  and  was 
led  to  speak  freely  of  home  life  in  the  mining  camps  and 
woman's  work  and  mission  there. 

The,  whole  company  was  on  a  full  flow  of  conversation 
when  the  butler  opened  the  door  and  announced  dinner. 

Ran  immediately  arose,  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Camp 
bell,  and  begged  Mr.  Campbell  to  take  in  Mrs.  Hay. 

Mr.  Will  AYalling,  with  one  of  his  most  lady-killing 
glances,  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

And  they  all  went  to  the  dining-room. 

But  neither  in  the  drawing-room  nor  at  the  dinner  table 
was  the  slightest  allusion  made  to  the  real  motive  of  their 
gathering. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  whole  party  had  returned  to  the 
drawing-room  and  the  talk  had  wandered  from  the  silver 
mines  of  Colorado  to  those  of  Siberia,  a  footman  entered 
the  room  and  spoke  to  his  master  apart,  and  in  a  low  voice. 

"  'Two  persons  to  see  Mr.  Andrew  Quin  ?'  Show  them  in 
here,  Bassett.  Or,  stay ! — Mr.  Quin  !"  exclaimed  Ran,  turn 
ing  to  his  old  friend. 

Dandy  came  up  in  a  moment, 

"Here  are  two  people  inquiring  for  you.  They  may  come 
upon  private  business  with  you.  I  don't  know,  of  course. 
So,  shall  they  come  in  here,  or  should  you  prefer  to  meet 
them  first?"  inquired  Ran. 

"  Oh !  I  know  who  they  are !  They  are  my  niece  and 
nevvy  from  Hantz.  I'll  go  and  meet  them  !"  said  Dandy  in 
a  delighted  tone. 

"And  then  bring  them  in  here  and  introduce  them  to 
me/'  said  Ran. 

And  Dandy  followed  the  footman  out  into  the  hall. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  215 

There  he  found  a  tall,  thin,  gray-haired  man  clothed  in 
an  ulster  from  head  to  heel,  holding  in  his  left  hand  a  warm 
cap,  and  on  his  right  arm  a  stout,  rosy,  handsome  woman  in 
a  black  velvet  bonnet  and  a  gray  plaid  shawl  that  nearly 
covered  the  whole  of  her  black  silk  dress. 

"You  —  you  —  you  are  —  my  niece  —  Julia  Quin  —  as  was?" 
inquired  old  Dandy,  moving  doubtfully  toward  the  smiling 
woman  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  indeed;  that  is,  you  are  Uncle  Andrew,"  the  visitor 
exclaimed,  taking  the  offered  hand. 

"Why,  to  be  sure  I  am  !"  he  cried,  drawing  her  up  and 
kissing  "her  heartily.  "And  would  you  believe  it,  my  wench, 
but  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  kissed  a  'oman  for  more 
than  twenty  years  !  And  now  interdoocc  me  to  your  hubby." 

"There  is  hardly  need;  he  knows  who  you  are!  Shake 
hands  long  o'  your  nephy,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

The  two  men  simultaneously  advanced  and  met. 

"I  am  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  John 


"So  am  I  yours,"  answered  Dandy,  cordially,  if  a  little 
incoherently. 

"And  you  didn't  know  me,  Juley,  did  you,  now?" 

"Not  by  sight,  Uncle  Andrew.  You  have  changed  some," 
replied  Mrs.  Legg,  smiling  and  showing  all  her  fine  teeth. 

"  So  have  you  !  So  have  you  !  And  a  deal  more  ?n  I 
have  !  I  left  you  a  tall,  slim,  fair  wench  under  twenty,  and 
I  find  you  a  broad,  stout,  rosy  woman  over  forty,  tf  that 
ain't  a  change  I'd  like  to  know  what  a  change  is!"  said 
Dandy  triumphantly. 

"Why,  your  change  !  When  you  left  us  to  seek  your  for 
tune  in  the  gold  fields  of  California  you  were  a  stout,  broad- 
shouldered,  red-faced  and  red-headed  man  of  forty.  Now 
you  are  a  thin,  pale,  silver-haired  old  gentleman  over  sixty," 
retorted  Julia,  artfully  mingling  flattery  with  truth. 

"Yes,  that  is  so;  that  is  so,"  meekly  assented  old  Dandy; 
and  then,  meditatively,  he  added:  "And  I  like  it  to  be  so. 
I  like  to  think  a  good  deal  of  my  body  wasting  away  in  the 
sweet,  sunshiny  air  while  still  I  am  able  to  walk  about  in 
it  ;  so  as  when-  1  leave  it  there'll  be  only  skin  and  bone  to 
lay  in  the  ground  —  or  very  little  more." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Dandy,  don't  talk  that  a  way  !  You  can't  be 
much  over  sixty,  and  you  may  live  to  be  over  eighty  or 


216  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

ninety — that  is  twenty  or  thirty  years  for  you  to  live  in 
this  world." 

"What  for?" 

"  'What  for?'  Why — why,  to  be  a  comfort  to  your  dear 
niece  who  loves  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Legg,  not  consciously 
hypocritical,  but  self-deceived  into  the  notion  that  «he  was 
sincere. 

"Ah!"  grunted  Dandy  in  a  tone  which  left  his  niece  in 
doubt  whether  he  disbelieved  her  or  not. 

Suddenly  the  old  man,  feeling  himself  fatigued  by  stand 
ing  a  few  minutes,  remembered  that  he  had  impolitely,  even 
if  unintentionally,  kept  his  relatives  in  the  same  position. 

"Oh,  excuse  me !  Take  seats !  take  seats!"  he  said,  wav 
ing  his  hands  wildly  around  the  hall  among  the  oaken  and 
leather-cushioned  chairs  with  which  it  was  furnished. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Legg  seated  themselves  on  two  of  the 
nearest. 

Dandy  drew  a  third  up  before  then  and  dropped  into  it. 

"You'll  come  home  'long  of  us  and  stop  for  good,  Uncle 
Andrew,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Legg. 

Before  the  old  man  could  reply  Mr.  Legg  took  up  the 
word. 

"Yes,  sir,  we  should  be  proud  to  have  you  a  member  of 
our  family  for  the  rest  of  your  life !  And  may  it  be  a  long 
and  happy  one!" 

"I  do  thank  ye,  niece  and  nephy !  T  do,  indeed !  But  I 
don't  know  'bout  going  home  'long  of  you  now !  You  see, 
I'm  stopping  here  'long  o'  my  young  friend,  Mr.  Randolph 

Hay,  and  wisiting  of  him,  am  sort  o'  at  his  orders " 

began  Dandy,  but  his  niece  interruped  him  hastily,  almost 
indignantly,  with : 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  Uncle  Andrew  Quin,  that  while 
ever  you  have  got  a  'fectionate  niece  and  nephy  ready  to 
share  their  last  crust  'long  o'  you  as  you  have  gone  at  your 
age  and  tuk  service  at  the  Hall  ?" 

"Lord  !  No,  wench  !  What  are  ye  talking  on  ?  Didn't  I 
tell  'ee  that  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  was  a  friend  of  mine  ?  And 
didn't  I  tell  'ee  I  was  a-visiting  on  him?  What  be  ye 
a-thinking  on  ?" 

"Well,  then,  what  did  you  mean  by  being  at  his  orders?" 

"  Oh !  just  to  give  my  testimony  onto  a  certain  matter  in 
case  of  need.  And  I  say  I  can't  give  you  any  answer  to  your 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

invitation  until  I  see  how  things  be  gwine  to  turn  out  at 
the  Hall!" 

"Ah!  how  long  will  that  be?"  demanded  Mrs.  Legg. 

"Maybe  a  few  hours,  if  it  don't  go  into  court;  maybe  a 
few  centuries  if  it  do.  And  in  the  last  case,  I  sha'n't  be  here 
so  long." 

"Uncle  Dandy,  you  speak  in  riddles." 

"I  must  do  that  at  the  present  moment,  my  dear.  But  in 
a  few  hours,  or  a  few  centuries,  if  you  haven't  guessed  them 
in  that  time,  I  will  give  you  the  answers  to  them  riddles." 

"Uncle  Andrew,  we  thought  by  your  sending  a  telegram 
to  us  to  'come  at  once/  that  you  were  very  ill." 

"Well,  my  wench,  I  thank  you  and  him  for  coming  so 
very  prompt.  I  do,  indeed!  So  much  prompter  than  I 
could  expect!  Really,  I  didn't  think  you  would  get  here 
until  some  time  to-morrow.  But  I'm  glad  and  thankful  as 
you're  here  to-night." 

"But  you  are  not  ill,  Uncle  Dandy.  You  are  very  well, 
thank  the  Lord!" 

"I  never  said  I  was  ill,  Juley.  I  said  I  wasn't  able  to 
travel.  No  more  I  ain't.  And  no  more  I  wasn't.  I'm  a 
feeble  old  man,  wench." 

"Tut!  tut!  Teeble  old  man/  indeed!  You  are  a  'fine 
old  English  gentleman/  as  the  song  says.  And  now  you 
have  come  home  to  old  England  so  well  off  and  so  well- 
looking  you  will  be  getting  married  and  putting  some 
blooming  young  aunt-in-law  over  our  heads!" 

"  'Blooming  young'  fiddlesticks  !"  giggled  old  Dandy,  not 
displeased  at  the  words  of  his  niece. 

"But  what  made  you  telegraph  us  in  such  hot  haste?" 

"'Cause,  after  being  away  so  long  and  coming  so  far,  I 
got  into  a  sort  of  fever  to  see  my  kin." 

"And  we  were  in  a  fever  to  see  you,  you  dear  uncle,  from 
the  moment  we  got  your  dispatch.  And  we  thank  you  now 
for  sending  it,  although  it  did  frighten  us  nearly  to  death 
on  your  account." 

"Isn't  it  strange  you  should  have  cared  so  much  for  an 
old  uncle  you  hadn't  seen  nor  heerd  tell  on  for  twenty  years 
or  more?"  demanded  Dandy  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"Strange  or  not,  it  was  so.  But  is  it  stranger  than  that 
you  should  have  cared  so  much  for  me  as  to  send  a  telegram 


218  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

and  be  in  a  fever  to  see  me  ?  Come,  Uncle  Dandy !  Yon 
know  'blood  is  thicker  than  water/  ' 

"That  is  so!  Yes,  that  is  so!"  muttered  the  old  man 
meditatively. 

"  Come,,  Julia !  I  think  that  we  must  go.  You  see,  Mr. 

Quin Or  may  I  call  you  Uncle  Quin  ?"  inquired  John 

Legg,  interrupting  his  own  speech. 

"Uncle  Quin,  Uncle  Andrew,  Uncle  Dandy — whichever 
you  please,"  cordially  replied  the  old  man. 

"Then,  Uncle  Quin,  I  must  tell  you  that  we  are  very  glad 
to  find  you  in  such  good  health.  We  are  sorry,  though,  that 
you  cannot  go  home  with  us  at  once.  We  shall  have  to  re 
turn  to  Hedge  to-morrow.  To-night,  however,  we  shall 
have  to  find  quarters  in  the  village  here,  and  will  see  you 
again  in  the  morning  before  we  leave.  Shall  we  say  good 
night  now  ?"  said  John  Legg,  offering  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  stay  !  stop  !  I  forgot !  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay  wishes 
to  see  you  both — wants  to  make  your  acquaintance — and 
made  me  promise  to  bring  you  into  the  drawing-room. 
Come !"  said  Dandy,  taking  the  offered  hand  of  his  nephew 
and  trying  to  draw  him  toward  a  door. 

John  Legg  hesitated,  looked  at  his  wife,  and  then  in 
quired  : 

"Who's  in  there?" 

"Squire  and  wife,  and  brother-in-law  and  lawyer,  parson 
and  wife  and  daughter,  and  a  backwoodsman — all  plain  peo 
ple  as  you  needn't  be  afraid  on;  I  ain't." 

"We  would  rather  not  go  in.  We  are  not  exactly  dressed 
for  company,  right  off  a  railway  journey,  and  a  very  long 
one  at  that,  as  we  are.  Can't  you  step  in  and  persuade  the 
young  squire  to  come  out  and  speak  to  us?  You  can  tell 
him  how  it  is." 

"Well,  I'll  go  and  try,"  said  Dandy. 

And  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  went  up  to  Kan, 
and  whispered: 

"Mr.  Hay,  my  niece  and  nephy  be  plain  folk  and  a  bit 
shy.  They  want  to  pay  their  respects  to  you,  but  don't  like 
to  face  the  company  in  the  drawing-room.  Will  you  please 
come  and  speak  to  them  in  the  hall  ?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  Ran,  rising;  and  then  turning  to  his 
friends  he  added : 

"I  am  called  out  for  a  moment.    Will  you  excuse  me  ?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Smiles  and  nods  from  every  one  answered  him. 

He  followed  Dandy  to  the  hall. 

"Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  sir,"  said  the  old  man  with  solemn 
formality,  "will  you  have  the  goodness  to  allow  me  to  inter- 
dooce  to  your  honor  my  niece  and  ner>h}r,  Juley  and  John 
Legg?" 

Julia  stood  up  and  dropped  her  rustic,  housemaid's  cour 
tesy.  John  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed. 

Ran  held  out  a  hand  to  each,  saying  cordially: 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  Your  uncle  is  one  of  my 
oldest  and  most  esteemed  friends ;  so  that  any  friends  of  his 
own  shall  always  be  most  heartily  welcome.  You  are  just 
from  Hantz?" 

"Straight,  sir.  Arrived  by  the  train  that  reached  Chux- 
ton  at  six  o'clock  this  evening,"  answered  John  Legg. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ANOTHER    ARRIVAL 

Now  that  was  the  train  by  which  Ran  had  expected 
Gentleman  Geff  and  his  suit,  and  this  was  about  an  hour 
beyond  the  time  when  they  were  due  at  Haymore.  So  his 
next  question  was  the  inevitable  one : 

"Did  any  other  passengers  leave  that  train  for  Hay- 
more?" 

Then  John  Legg  stopped  to  laugh  a  little  before  he  an 
swered  : 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir.  There  were  two  gentlemen  and  a  lady.  I 
didn't  see  their  faces  nor  hear  their  names,  but  they  seemed 
to  belong  to  some  seat  in  the  neighborhood,  for  the  tallest 
of  the  gentlemen  seemed  to  have  expected  the  family  car 
riage  to  be  there  on  the  spot  to  meet  the  party.  And"  when 
he  found  that  it  was  not,  well,  sir,  I  don't  think  as  in  all  my 
long  life  I  ever  heard  such  a  vast  amount  and  choice  variety 
of  cursing." 

"Gentleman  Geff  all  over!"  muttered  Dandy  to  himself. 

"What  became  of  them?"  inquired  Ran. 

"Don't  know,  sir.  We  left  him  there  cursing  land  and 
water,  sun,  moon  and  stars,  so  to  speak,  and  threatening  the 


220  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

destruction  of  the  earth,  or  words  to  that  effect,  if  his  car 
riage  and  servants  failed  to  appear  within  the  next  five 
minutes.  "We  walked  to  the  Tawny  Lion  Inn  and  secured 
the  only  conveyance  to  be  found  and  came  on  here  while  the 
gentleman  waited  for  his  coach  and  four,  or  whatever  it 
might  have  been." 

"And  is  waiting  there  still,  probably,  and  will  have  to 
wait  until  your  'conveyance'  returns.7' 

"Well,  sir,  that  will  not  be  long.  Julia  and  myself  are 
about  to  say  good-night,"  said  John  Legg  respectfully. 

"  'Good-night,'  indeed !  By  no  means !  What  do  you 
mean?  Come  two  hundred  miles  or  so  to  see  your  uncle 
here  at  Haymore  Hall,  and  after  an  hour's  visit  say  good 
night?  Not  at  all !  You  and  Mrs.  Legg  will,  I  hope,  give 
us  the  pleasure  of  remaining  with  us  during  you?  stay  in 
Yorkshire,"  said  Ran  heartily. 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir,  and  we  thank  vou  very  much, 
but " 

John  Legg  paused  and  looked  at  his  wife,  who  did  not 
help  him  by  a  word  or  a  glance. 

"But  I  will  take  no  denial.  Where  shall  I  send  for  your 
lugga.ge?"  inquired  Ran. 

"We  have  nothing  but  hand-bags,  sir,  and  they  are  in  the 
carryall  outside.  You  see,  we  came  directly  from  the  Chux- 
ton  station  to  this  house,  and  have  all  we  carried  in  the 
vehicle  with  us.  We  intended  to  return  in  it,  and  to  put  up 
at  the  Red  Fox  Inn  in  your  village  here." 

"But  vou  will  do  no  such  thins:.  Yon  will  get  your  hand 
bag?  out  of  the  carriage,  send  it  back  to  Chuxton — where 
the  swearinsr  gentleman  is  waiting,  swearing  harder  than 
ever,  no  doubt — and  you  will  remain  here  with  us." 

"What  do  you  say,  Juley?"  said  John  Legg,  appealing  to 
his  wife.  "Come,  woman,  can't  you  help  a  fellow  a  little?" 

"What  do  you  say,  Uncle  Dandy?"  inquired  Julia,  ap 
pealing  in  turn  to  her  old  relative. 

"You  stop  here!  Both  on  you  stop!  You  take  Mr.  Hay 
at  his  word !  Ran  Hay  means  every  word  that  he  speaks. 
If  he  says  he  wants  you  to  stop  here  he  does  want  you  to 
stop  here  !  And  as  he  does,  you  ought  to  do  it  to  please  him 
as  well  as  yourselves,  which  you  will  be  sure  to  do,  I  know. 
That's  all  I  have  got  to  say !» 

While  Dandy  was  speaking  and  his  niece  and  nephew 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

listening,  Ran  beckoned  a  footman  to  follow  him.  and 
stepped  out  of  the  front  door  and  went  up  to  the  driver  of 
the  carryall,  who  stood  by  the  horses'  heads,  clapping  his 
thickly  gloved  hands  and  stamping  his  heavily  shod  feet  to 
keep  warm. 

"You  came  from  Chuxton?" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  been  waiting  here  for  more'n  an  hour  for 
the  parties  I  fetch,  and  myself  near  frozen,  spite  of  my  piles 
of  clothes  and " 

"Charles,"  said  Hay,  turning  his  head  and  speaking  in  a 
low  voice  to  the  footman,  "go  in  and  get  a  large  mug  of 
strong  ale  and  bring  it  out  to  this  man." 

The  footman  vanished  on  his  errand. 

The  driver  continued  as  if  he  had  not  been  interrupted: 

"Horses  like  to  catch  their  death  of  cold,  spite  o'  two 
heavy  blankets  apiece  laid  o'  top  of  them." 

"I  am  sorry  I  can  do  nothing  for  your  horses,  but  if  you 
think  any  of  the  grooms  might,  just  let  them  do  it,"  said 
Ean. 

"No,  sir.  There  can't  nobody  do  nothing  for  'em  here. 
And  nothing  will  help  them  but  a  brisk  trot  back  to  Chux 
ton  and  a  warm  mash  and  good  bed  when  they  get  there." 

The  footman  came  out  with  a  pewter  quart  measure  of 
strong,  foaming  ale  and  handed  it  to  the  driver. 

The  latter  took  it  with  a  "thanky"  to  the  server  and  a 
bow  to  the  master,  and  said : 

"Thank  you,  sir.  This  saves  my  life.  Here's  to  a  long 
and  happy  one  for  you  and  yours.  Is  the  party  inside  ready 
to  go  back,  if  you  please,  sir?"  inquired  the  driver  after  he 
had  taken  one  long  draught  of  the  ale  and  stopped  to  draw 
a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"They  are  not  going  back.  Charles,  get  the  bags  and 
other  effects  out  of  the  carriage  and  carry  them  into  the 
house." 

The  footman  obeyed,  loading  himself  with  two  heavy 
bags,  two  rugs  and  a  large  umbrella,  and  took  them  into 
the  hall  while  the  driver  was  taking  his  second  long  pull  at 
the  ale. 

"How  much  is  your  fare?"  inquired  Hay. 

The  man  stopped  to  recover  breath  with  another  devout 
inhalation  of  enjoyment,  and  then  answered: 

"Ten  shillings,  sir." 


222  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Ran  took  out  his  purse  and  gave  the  man  half  a  sovereign 
and  half  a  crown. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  touching  his  hat,  not 
for  the  fare,  but  for  the  "tip." 

Then  he  took  the  blankets  off  his  horses,  folded  and  put 
them  under  his  box  and  mounted  to  his  seat. 

"You  had  better  drive  as  fast  as  you  can,  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  warming  the  blood  of  the  horses,  but  for  that 
of  cooling  the  temper  of  the  gentleman  who  is  waiting  for 
you  with  his  party  at  the  station." 

"Another  fare  to-night,  sir?" 

"Yes,  so  I  hear  from  the  people  you  have  just  brought." 

"Then  the  master  won't  only  have  to  find  fresh  horses, 
but  a  fresh  driver,  sir ;  for  I'm  just  dead  beat.  Any  more 
commands,  sir?" 

"Not  any." 

"Good-night,  then,  sir." 

"Good-night." 

The  driver  took  up  his  "ribbons"  and  started  his  horses 
in  a  brisk  trot. 

Ran  turned  to  re-enter  the  house. 

He  was  met  by  John  Legg  running  out  bareheaded. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Ran. 

"The  man  has  gone  off  without  his  fare." 

"Well,  go  in  the  house — you  will  catch  your  death  of 
cold ;  but  you  can't  stop  him  now.  He  is  through  the  lodge 
gates  by  this  time,"  said  Ran,  playfully  taking  John  Legg 
by  the  shoulders  and  turning  him  "right  face  forward"  to 
the  ascending  steps. 

They  re-entered  the  house  together. 

Mrs.  Legg  had  already  taken  off  her  heavy  shawl  and 
bonnet,  and  had  arranged  her  hair  before  the  hall  mirror, 
and  stood  in  her  neat  plain  dress,  with  fresh  crepe  lis  ruches 
— which  she  had  taken  from  the  flap  pocket  outside  her  bag 
— around  neck  and  whists,  and  her  only  ornaments  a  gold 
watch  and  chain  and  a  set  of  pearls,  consisting  of  brooch 
and  earrings,  which  had  been  her  husband's  wedding  present 
to  herself  and  which  she  always  carried  about  her  when 
traveling  for  fear,  if  left  at  home,  they  might  be  stolen. 
These  she  had  now  taken  from  her  pocket  and  put  on. 

Altogether  she  was  quite  presentable  in  that  drawing- 
room.  And  as,  with  all.  she  was  a  "comely"  matron,  her 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

husband  looked  upon  her  with  pardonable  pride  as  well  as 
love. 

But  while  furtively  glancing  at  his  wife  he  was  putting 
off  his  ulster  and  speaking  to  his  host  all  at  the  same  tune. 

"I  hadn't  a  notion  what  you  were  about/'  he  was  saying, 
"until  your  man  came  in  loaded  down  with  our  luggage.  As 
soon  as  I  saw  that  and  found  out  what  you  had  done  I 
hurried  out  to  pay  the  fare,  but  the  carryall  had  gone." 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  Ran.  "Come  in  now  and  let  me 
introduce  you  to  my  friends." 

"Please,  Mr.  Hay,  let  me  brush  his  hair  and  put  a  clean 
collar  and  bosom  on  him  first.  I  won't  be  two  minutes," 
pleaded  Mrs.  Legg. 

Ran  yielded,  and  the  man's  toilet  was  made  in  the  hall, 
as  the  woman's  had  been  a  few  minutes  previous. 

Then  Ran  took  Mrs.  Legg  on  his  arm  and  led  the  way 
into  the  drawing-room,  followed  by  old  Dandy  and  John 


Hay  presented  his  new  visitor  first  to  his  wife  and  then 
to  all  his  guests.  And  the  plain  pair,  it  is  almost  needless 
to  say,  were  as  cordially  received  by  the  cultured  people 
from  the  English  rectory  as  they  were  by  the  border  men 
from  the  Calif  ornian  mining  camp. 

When  this  little  ripple  in  the  circle  had  subsided  all  set 
tled  again  into  small  groups. 

The  four  women  found  themselves  temporarily  together, 
and  fell  to  talking  of  the  weather,  servants,  children  and 
the  approaching  Christmas  holidays. 

Mrs.  Campbell  and  her  daughter  sat  one  on  each  side  of 
Julia  and  made  much  of  her.  No  word  from  Hetty  or  Jen 
nie  revealed  the  fact  that  Mrs.  John  Legg  had  once  been  in 
their  service. 

But  Julia  made  no  secret  of  it. 

"I  was  housekeeper  at  the  rectory  of  Medge,  ma'am,  in 
the  old  lady's  time,  three  years  before  his  reverence  was 
married." 

"She  means  in  my  grandmother's  days,"  put  in  Mr. 
Campbell. 

"And  for  eighteen  years  afterward;  making  twenty-one 
years  in  all  that  I  lived  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Camp 
bell.  I  held  that  child,  Miss  Jennie  —  Mrs.  Montgomery 
that  now  is  —  on  my  lap  when  she  wasn't  twenty-four  hours 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

old.  And  nursed  her  and  took  care  of  her  from  the  time 
of  her  birth  until  that  of  her  marriage,"  said  Julia. 

And  Jennie,  who  was  holding  her  hand,  raised  and 
pressed  it  to  her  own  breast. 

"Yes;  and  I  have  lived  with  them  ever  since,  up  to  the 
time  when  they  left  to  come  up  here  to  Yorkshire.  Then 
I  took  Mr.  Legg's  offer  and  married  him." 

"I  hope  you  have  been  very  happy,"  said  Jennie. 

"I  am  as  happy,  dear,  as  I  can  be  parted  from  you  all. 
We  came  to  Hay-more  to  see  Uncle  Dandy.  And  we  in 
tended  to  go  to-morrow  and  see  you.  We  little  expected  to 
find  you  here.  I  haven't  seen  his  reverence  since  the  day  he 
married  John  and  me." 

"That  was  the  last  ceremony  he  ever  performed  in  Hedge 
parish  church,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell. 

While  they  talked  in  this  manner  of  strictly  personal  and 
domestic  matters,  the  rector  himself  was  one  of  a  group 
gathered  around  Mr.  Will  Walling,  who  was  another  Gul 
liver  or  Munch ausen  for  telling  fabulous  adventures  of 
which  he  himself  was  the  hero. 

The  inevitable  subject  of  mining  had  suggested  to  Mr. 
Wrill  the  story  of  the  horrors  of  penal  serviture  in  the  silver 
mines  of  the  Ural  Mountains,  and  he  was  telling  it  as  if  the 
false  charge,  the  secret  conviction,  the  exile,  the  journey, 
the  life  in  the  mines,  the  escape  and  flight  through  the  snow 
and  ice  of  Siberia,  and  all  the  attendant  awful  sufferings 
had  been  in  his  own  personal  experience.  And  all  his  audi 
ence  listened  with  the  fullest  faith  and  deepest  interest — 
that  is,  all  except  two — Ran,  who  had  heard  the  story  told 
before  to-night,  and  John  Legg,  who  had  very  recently  read 
it  in  a  dilapidated  old  volume  bought  for  threepence  at  a 
second-hand  book  stand. 

Ran  was  bored,  and  could  hardly  repress  the  rudeness  of 
a  yawn;  and  he  saw,  besides,  that  John  Legg  looked  in 
credulous  and  sarcastic. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  party  of  sinners  who  were  by  this 
time  on  their  way  to  Haymore  and  to  judgment.  And  then 
that  their  coming  would  bring  pain  and  shame  to  more  than 
one  of  that  party.  But  all — even  poor  Jennie — had  been 
prepared  for  the  event  except  John  Legg.  Then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  must  warn  the  poor  father  of  the  shock  that 
might  otherwise  overwhelm  him. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

He  stoped  and  said : 

"Mr.  Legg,  will  you  favor  me  with  a  few  minutes'  con 
versation  in  the  library?" 

"Surely,  sir,"  replied  the  greengrocer  with  alacrity  as 
he  arose  to  accompany  his  host. 

"Friends,  will  you  excuse  us  for  a  few  moments?" 

"Yes,  if  we  must,"  replied  Will  Walling,  answering  for 
the  company;  "but,  really,  you  know,  it  is  a  shame  to  go 
before  you  have  heard  the  end  of  the  story." 

"Oh,  I  have  heard  you  tell  it  many  times,"  said  Ran. 

"Yes;  but  Mr.  Legg  hasn't." 

"Oh,  I  have  done  better  than  that.  I  have  been  through 
it.  Why,  man,  I  was  the  very  Enokoff  who  helped  Walling- 
ski  to  make  good  his  flight  across  the  frontier.  Only  my 
real  name  was  not  Enokoff,  but  Legginoff,  or  Legenough,  if 
you  like  it  better,"  said  the  greengrocer  as  he  followed  Ran 
from  the  drawing-room. 

Will  Walling  started,  but  could  make  nothing  of  the  an 
swer;  yet  to  his  circle  of  listeners  he  said  in  explanation: 

"Too  bad  of  Hay  to  have  anticipated  me  and  told  that  old 
•fellow  the  end  of  the  story  while  they  were  pretending  to 
listen." 

Meanwhile  Ran  had  led  his  companion  to  the  library, 
where  both  sat  down  on  a  leathern  armchair,  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  narrow  table,  on  which  they  leaned  their  arms, 
facing  each  other. 

"Now,  then,  sir,  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  Legg. 

"Do  you  smoke?"  inquired  Ran. 

"Only  occasionally;  when  I  need  a  sedative  and  phi 
losophy." 

"Exactly.  I  smoke  semi-occasional ly  for  the  same  rea 
sons.  Will  you  take  an  exceptionally  fine  cigar  now  ?  It  is 
an  Isabella  Regina." 

"Thank  you." 

Ran  produced  a  case  and  matches.  They  lighted  their 
weeds  and  began  to  smoke. 

Ran  let  a  few  minutes  elapse  to  allow  the  sedative  to  take 
some  effect  upon  his  guest,  and  then  broke  the  subject  for 
which  he  had  brought  the  old  man  there. 

"Mr.  Legg,  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me  for  asking  a  ques 
tion  that  may  seem  to  be  an  unpardonable  liberty/'  he  said 
in  a  low  voice. 


226  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Ask  me  what  you  please.,  sir.  I  am  sure  it  Will  not  be  an 
offensive  liberty,  since  you  could  not  possibly  take  one/' 
gravely  replied  the  old  man. 

"Then,  when  did  you  hear  from  your  son  and  your 
daughter?" 

"I  have  no  son  or  daughter,  sir.  The  young  man  and 
woman  to  whom  you  may  allude  forsook  our  humble  way  of 
life  as  soon  as  we  had  finished  educating  them  above  their 
postion,  each  taking  his  or  her  way.  Yet  I  am  often  sorry 
for  them  and  anxious  about  them,  for  they  were  once  my 
children,,  though  they  discard  and  despise  me,  for  I  know 
that  for  that  very  reason  they  must  come  to  grief  and  shame 
in  this  world  as  well  as  in  the  next,  if  they  do  not  repent 
and  reform.  For,  look  you,  Mr.  Hay,  I  am  an  old  man,  and 
all  my  long  life  I  have  noticed  this  one  thing — that  a  man 
may  break  every  commandment  in  the  decalogue,  except 
one,  and  he  may  escape  punishment  in  this  world,  whatever 
becomes  of  him  in  the  next.  I  say  he  may,  and  he  often 
does.  But  if  he  breaks  the  Fifth  Commandment — called 
the  Commandment  with  Promise — his  punishment,  or  his 
discipline  of  pain  and  failure,  comes  in  this  world.  How 
ever,  upon  repentance,  he  may  be  forgiven  in  the  next. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  my  observation  and  experience  of  men. 
I  cannot  answer  for  those  of  other  people." 

"Well,  Mr.  Legg,  I  fear  your  opinion  is  about  to  be  sus> 
tained  in  the  fate  of  the  young  people.  They  are  both  about 
to  come  to  grief ;  and  I  am  glad  for  the  girl's  sake  that  you 
are  here  to-night,  for  I  am  sure  you  would  stand  by  your 
daughter  in  her  trouble,"  said  Ean. 

The  old  man  stared  at  the  earnest  young  speaker  and 
then  said: 

"  So  it  was  for  this,  Mr.  Hay,  that  you  made  old  Andrew 
Quin  bring  me  here  by  telegraph." 

"No !  Heaven  knows  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
bringing  you  to  Haymore.  That  was  entirely  Mr.  Quin's 
own  idea." 

"Then  it  was  old  Andrew  that  worked  to  bring  about  my 
visit  here  in  the  interest  of  my  un dutiful  daughter." 

"No!  Again  you  are  wrong.  Andrew  Quin  knew  noth 
ing  whatever  of  your  chance  of  meeting  your  son  or  daugh 
ter  at  Haymore." 

"Then  the  present  crisis  is  accidental." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Providential,  rather." 

"I  stand  corrected.    Where  are  these  people  now?" 

"They  are  on  their  way  to  this  house.  They  will  be  here 
in  one  hour  from  this  time." 

"My  wretched  son  and  daughter?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Legg.  Your  son  and  daughter,  and  the  man 
that  she  believes  to  be  her  husband." 

"  The  man  that  she  believes  to  be  her  husband !  Believes 
only !  Heaven  and  earth !  has  she  fallen  as  low  as  that  ?'" 
groaned  the  father. 

"Not  knowingly.  Not  guiltily.  Neither  state,  church 
nor  society  will  hold  her  guilty  of  a  deep  wrong  that  she 
has  suffered,  not  committed.  Hers  was  not  an  elopement. 
Not  a  clandestine  marriage.  Her  courtship  was  open.  Her 
engagements  approved  by  all  her  friends.  Her  wedding 
was  public,  and  the  reception  that  followed  was  the  social 
event  of  the  season." 

"Yet  the  man  is  not  her  husband?" 

"No." 

"How  so?" 

"Because  he  was  and  had  been  a.  married  man  for  two 
years  previous  to  his  meeting  with  your  daughter.  Because 
he  was  and  is  a  bigamist.  More  than  that,  he  is  a  forger, 
a  perjurer,  a  swindler,  a  highway  robber  and  a  midnight 
assassin !" 

"Great  Heaven!  Great  Heaven!"  groaned  the  wretched 
father,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"In  a  word,  this  man  may  be  called  the  champion  crim 
inal  of  his  age,"  continued  Ean,  unmercifully  "piling  up 
the  agonies." 

"And  how  is  it  that  he  is  at  large?'" 

"Because  his  crimes  have  only  recently  been  brought  to 
light." 

"And  this  man  has  betrayed  my  poor  girl!" 

"It  was  not  her  fault." 

"Yes — ah,  me  ! — it  was.  Her  pride,  beauty  and  ambition 
have  brought  her  to  ruin." 

"No !    You  may  still  help  and  save  her." 

"I  doubt  it.  But  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  poor  John 
Legg,  sinking  back  in  his  chair  and  covering  his  working 
[features  with  his  open  palms. 

Kan  began  and  told  the  whole  story  of  the  connection  of 


228  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Gentleman  Gen*,  Lamia  Leegh,  Jennie  Campbell  and  him 
self,  comprised  within  the  last  year. 

"And  in  the  room  there,"  he  concluded,  "gathered  to 
meet  and  confound  the  great  criminal  are  the  witnesses  of 
his  crimes,  the  testifiers  to  his  identity,  and,  more  terrible 
than  all,  his  victims,  raised  as  it  were  from  the  dead  against 
him.  Among  them  Jennie  Montgomery,  the  daughter  of 
James  Campbell,  the  girl  who  was  nursed  and  brought  up 
for  sixteen  years  by  your  good  wife,  and  who  was  married, 
then  deserted,  and  finally  stabbed  by  that  felon.  Among 
them,  too,  myself,  Ran  Hay,  the  friend  who  shared  his 
ct'bin  and  his  crust — nay,  his  heart  and  soul —  with  him, 
arid  yet  whom  he  shot  down  from  behind  at  midnight  in  the 
Black  Woods  of  California.  Among  them,  too,  will  be  the 
wronged  father  of  that  unhappy  girl " 

"No  !  no !  No  !  no  !  Oh,  Mr.  Hay  !  I  cannot  be  present 
at  that  scene  1  The  sight  of  me  would  add  to  her  suffering. 
ISTo !  When  it  is  all  over,  and  the  man  who  has  spoiled  her 
life  has  been  exposed,  then  take  care  of  her  for  a  few  hours 
and  afterward  let  her  know  of  her  father;  that,  however  his 
heart  may  have  been  hardened  against  his  vain,  haughty, 
disdainful  daughter,  it  is  softened  by  his  humbled,  grieved 
and  suffering  child.  Let  her  know  that  her  father's  arms 
and  her  father's  home  are  ever  opened  to  his  daughter.  But 
I  cannot  see  her  to-night,  Mr.  Hay.  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you,  sir.  I  understand  you  now.  But  please  leave  me  and 
send  Julia  to  me.  She  knows  how  to  deal  with  me  better 
than  any  one  else." 

"I  will  do  so  at  once.  And,  Mr.  I^egg,  please  use  this 
house  and  the  servants  just  as  if  they  were  entirely  your 
own.  Call  for  anything  you  may  like,  and  do  exactly  as  you 
choose,"  said  Ran  as  he  took  the  old  man's  hand,  pressed  it 
kindly,  and  left  the  library. 

Then  John  L^gg  dropped  his  head  upon  his  folded  arms 
on  the  table  and  burst  into  tears. 

Other  arms  were  soon  around  him. 

He  looked  up. 

Julia  stood  there. 

He  told  her  all  in  fewer  words  than  Ran  had  taken  to 
tell  the  story. 

She  drew  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside  him,  took  his  hand 
and  held  it  while  she  said : 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Well,  don't  cry  no  more.  The  girl  has  had  her  lesson; 
but  the  shame  of  her  marriage  is  not  hern  or  ourn.  We  will 
take  her  home  and  give  her  love  and  comfort  and  peace,  if 
we  cannot  give  her  happiness.  I  will  be  as  true  and  tender 
a  mother  to  her  as  if  she  were  my  own  hurt  child.  And 
her  own  mother  looking  down  from  heaven  will  see  no  cause 
to  blame  me.  At  Medge  her  story  need  never  be  known. 
She  will  be  the  Liddy  Legg  of  her  youth.  She  went  for  to 
be  a  governess  in  a  rich  American  family — she  has  come 
home  now  for  good.  That  is  true,  and  it's  all  of  the  truth 
that  need  be  known  at  Medge.  The  writing  between  the 
lines  need  not  be  read  there.  And  there  is  IJncle  Dandy, 
who  is  just  a,s  kind  as  he  is  rich.  He  will  surely  be  good  to 
the  poor  gal.'' 

Suddenly  Julia  paused  and  fell  into  deep  thought. 

While  she  had  been  comforting  her  husband  in  his  sorrow 
over  his  miserable  daughter  her  own  better  nature  was 
aroused,  and  when  finally  she  had  occasion  to  allude  to  her 
old  uncle  she  felt  ashamed  of  the  selfish  and  avaricious 
spirit  that  had  inspired  her  to  run  after  him  for  his  imag 
inary  wealth  and  to  covet  its  inheritance,  and  she  secretly 
resolved  to  try,  with  the  Lord's  help,  to  put  away  the  evil 
influence  and  think  of  the  old  relative  as  a  lonely  old  man 
whose  age  and  infirmities  it  should  be  r.ot  only  her  duty  but 
her  pleasure  to  cherish  and  support. 

And  then  the  spirit  of  avarice  departed  for  the  time 
being,  at  least ;  for  a  devil  cannot  endure  the  presence  of  an 
angel. 

While  this  change  was  silently  passing  within  her  she 
still  held  her  husband's  hand. 

At  length  she  spoke  again,  slightly  varying  the  subject. 

"What  about  the  boy?"  she  inquired,  referring  to  his  son. 

"The  man,  you  mean;  for  he  is  twenty-eight  years  old, 
I  don't  know !  I  hope  he  will  never  get  a  pulpit,  for  I  know 
this  much,  that  he  is  totally  unfit  for  one;  yes,  and  the 
bishops,  whose  boots  he  is  always  licking  in  "the  hope  of 
preferment,  know  it,  too !  He  got  the  promise  of  the  living 
.here  at  Haymore  from  the  fraudulent  claimant  who  has 
ruined  us  all,  or  tried  to  do  so;  but  that  goes  for  nothing 
at  all,  for  Mr.  Eandolph  Hay  has  already  given  it  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  a  good  man  and  worthy  minister.  So 
my  vagabond  will  also  have  to  meet  with  humiliating  dis- 


230  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

appointment  along  with  his  felonious  patron  and  wretched 
sister." 

"Think  no  more  on  it,  except  to  do  the  best  you  can  and 
leave  the  rest  to  the  Lord/'  said  Julia. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  a  footman  entered 
with  a  large  tray  laden  with  tea,  bread  and  butter,  game 
pie,  cakes,  sweetmeats  and  other  edibles.  He  put  it  down 
on  the  tables  between  the  two  people  and  said : 

"My  mistress  thought,  sir,  that  you  might  like  refresh 
ments  after  your  journey.  And  would  you  prefer  a  bottle 
of  wine,  sir?" 

"No,  thank  you;  nothing  more  whatever.  You  need  not 
wait,"  replied  Mr.  Legg. 

The  man  touched  his  forehead  and  left  the  room. 

Judy  had  remembered  what  Ean,  with  all  his  goodness  of 
heart,  had  forgotten. 

But,  then,  it  is  almost  always  Eve,  and  seldom  or  never 
Adam,  who  is 

"On  hospitable  thoughts  intent," 

in  the  way  of  feeding  at  least. 

Julia  poured  out  tea  for  her  husband  and  filled  his  plate 
with  game  pie  and  bread  and  butter,  and  made  him  eat  and 
drink  and  set  him  a  good  example  in  that  agreeable  duty. 

In  the  meantime  the  company  in  the  drawing-room  were 
getting  a  little  weary  of  waiting. 

Mr.  Hay  had  contrived  to  draw  the  curate  aside,  where 
they  could  settle  the  affair  of  the  living.  It  was  but  a  short 
conference,  for  Mr.  Campbell  was  glad  and  grateful  to  ac 
cept  it.  At  the  end  of  their  talk  the  minister  said  very 
sincerely : 

"The  utmost  that  I  dared  to  hope  for  was  the  curacy 
under  the  new  rector,  whoever  he  should  be !  But  the  liv 
ing  !  It  is  more  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  or  deserved !  Yet 
will  I,  with  the  Lord's  help,  do  my  utmost  for  the  parish." 

What  Ran  might  have  replied  was  cut  short  with  some 
sudden  violence. 

First  by  the  heavy  rumbling  and  tumbling  of  some  clumsy 
carryall  over  the  rough  drive  as  it  drew  up  to  the  front  of 
the  Hall  and  stopped;  then  by  loud  and  angry  tones  of 


FOE  WHOSE  SAKE?  231 

voice;  then  by  a  resounding  peal  of  knocks  on  the  door 
\vhich  seemed  to  reverberate  through  the  entire  building. 

The  arrival  was  an  embodied  storm  that  threatened  to 
dash  in  the  entire  front  of  the  house. 

In  the  library  John  Legg  sprang  up  and  bolted  the  door 
against  the  uproar,  and  then  sat  down  by  his  trembling 
wife. 

In  the  drawing-room  all  was  excitement  and  expectation. 

"It's  him !"  exclaimed  old  Dandy,  with  his  few  spikes  of 
white  hair  rising  on  end  around  his  bald  crown.  "It's  him ! 
Straight  from  the  pit  of  fire  and  brimstone,  and  possessed 
of  the  devil  and  all  his  demons!" 

In  the  hall  the  frightened  footmen  hastened  to  throw 
open  the  front  door. 

Gentleman  Geff  burst  in,  cursing  and  swearing  in  the 
most  appalling  manner,  and  threatening  every  one  in  his 
house  with  instant  discharge,  death  and  destruction,  for  hav 
ing  kept  him  waiting  at  Chuxton  so  many  hours  and  not 
having  sent  his  coach  and  four  and  mounted  servants  to 
meet  him! 

So,  raving  like  a  madman  whose  frenzy  is  heightened  by 
mania  a  potu,  he  broke  into  the  drawing-room  in  the  midst 
of  the  assembled  company. 

Ran  Hay  arose  and  advanced  down  the  room  to  meet  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT  BAY 

RANDOLPH  HAY  advanced  to  meet  the  violent  intruder. 

Gentleman  Geff  was  still  raging  and  threatening. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamere?"  coolly  in 
quired  Ean,  calling  the  man  of  many  aliases  by  the  name  by 
which  he  had  known  him  in  California. 

Gentleman  Geff  stopped  suddenly  and  drew  himself  up 
with  drunken  arrogance. 

In  the  quiet,  low-voiced,  well-dressed  young  gentleman 
who  stood  before  him,  with  clear,  pale  complexion,  neatly 
trimmed  hair  and  mustache,  who  wore  Hght  kid  gloves,  and 
had  a  rosebud  in  his  buttonhole,  he  did  not  recognize  the 


£32  1OII  WHOSE  SAKE? 

rough,  rollicking,  sunburned  and  shock-headed  lad  who  had 
befriended  him  at  Grizzly  Gulch,  and  whom  he  himself  had 
shot  down,  robbed  and  left  for  dead,  to  be  devoured  by 
v/olves  in  the  Black  Woods  of  the  gold  State,  and  whose 
name  and  inheritance  he  had  stolen. 

"Who  in  thunder  and  lightning  are  you,  you  villain? 
And  what  the  fire  and  brimstone  are  you  doing  here,  in 
my  house,  you  rascal?"  he  fiercely  demanded,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  he  fell  to  cursing  and  swearing  In  the 
most  furious  manner,  ending  with:  "If  you  don't  get  out 
of  this  in  double-quick  I'll  have  you  kicked  out  of  doors  and 
into  the  horse  pond,  you  scoundrel !" 

"Perhaps  if  you  give  yourself  the  trouble  to  look  up  in 
my  face  you  may  recognize  me,  as  well  as  my  right  to  be 
here,"  said  Ran  calmly. 

Gentleman  Geff  stared. 

"You  should  remember  me.  It  has  not  been  so  long; 
only  since  the  second  of  last  April  that  we  parted  company 
in  the  Black  Woods  of  California,"  continued  Ran. 

Then  the  criminal's  face  blanched,  his  jaw  fell,  his  eyes 
started,  he  stared  with  growing  horror  for  a  moment,  then 
reeled,  and  must  have  fallen  but  that  he  was  caught  in  the 
strong  arms  of  Longman,  who  supported  him  to  a  high- 
backed  armchair  and  sat  him  down  in  it,  where  he  seemed 
to  fall  into  a  state  of  stupefaction.  The  awful  shock  of  this 
meeting  had  not  sobered  him — he  was  too  far  gone  in  drunk 
enness  for  that;  but  it  had  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  im 
becility. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Cassius  Leegh,  who  had  been  engaged 
outside  doing  all  the  duties  of  his  patron,  seeing  to  the 
luggage,  paying  off  the  carryall,  and  even  taking  care  of  his 
sister,  now  strutted  into  the  room  with  the  lady  on  his  arm, 
his  head  thrown  back,  his  nose  in  the  air,  and  altogether 
with  a  fine  manner  of  scorn. 

He  was  not  so  drunk  as  his  patron ;  he  was  only  drunk 
enough  to  be  a  very  great  man,  indeed ;  but  not  to  be  a  very 
violent  one. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  irregularity?"  he  loftily 
demanded.  "We  did  not  expect  company!" 

"We  did,"  said  Ran  with  a  touch  of  humor  in  his  tone. 

"Pray,  who  are  you,  sir?"  demanded  Leegh,  throwing  up 
his  head. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  233 

"Ask  your  companion  there,"  replied  Kan  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  toward  the  panic-stricken  object  in  the  armchair. 

"Hay !"  exclaimed  Leegh,  turning  to  his  patron.  "What 
in  the  dev — what  on  earth  does  all  this  mean  ?  Who  are  all 
these  people?" 

Gentleman  Geff  opened  his  mouth,  gasped,  rolled  his  eyes 
and  sank  into  silence. 

"  Can't  you  speak,  man  ?  What  the  dev — what  is  the  mat 
ter  with  you?  And  what  is  all  this  infer — this  confusion 
about?"  angrily  demanded  Leegh. 

Gentleman  Geff  gasped  two  or  three  times,  rolled  his  eyes 
frightfully  and  replied: 

"It  is  the  day  of  judgment!  And  the  dead — the  mur 
dered  dead — have  risen  to  bear  witness  against  me  ! — have 
left  their  graves  to  cry  'blood  for  blood' !"  he  shrieked;  and 
then  his  eyes  stared  and  became  fixed,  his  jaw  fell  and  his 
face  blanched. 

"Poor  idiot!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Leegh  in  extreme  disgusl. 
"I  never  saw  his  so  drunk  as  this.  If  he  goes  it  at  this 
pace  he  will  soon  come  to  the  end  of  life.  I  find  I  must  take 
command  here  and  clear  the  house.  Have  I  your  authority 
to  act  for  you,  sister?"  he  inquired  in  a  whisper  of  the 
woman  on  his  arm. 

"Yes — yes,"  she  faltered  faintly;  "but  take  me  first  to  a 
chair  or  sofa.  I  feel  as  if  about  to  faint.  Oh,  what  does  is 
all  mean?" 

"It  means  that  our  friend  here,"  he  replied,  pointing  to 
the  collapsed  criminal  in  the  chair,  "has  delirium  tremens. 
And  'has  'em  bad,'  as  the  old  costermonger  used  to  say  of 
his  cousin/'  he  added  as  he  placed  his  sister  in  a  large, 
cushioned  armchair,  into  which  she  sank  exhausted. 

Then  he  glanced  over  the  scene,  taking  stock  of  the  com 
pany  preparatory  to  his  work  of  clearing  the  room. 

Nearest  to  him,  on  his  right  hand,  stood  the  young  col 
ossus,  Samson  Longman,  leaning  over  the  chair  of  poor  old 
Dandy,  who  sat  with  his  bald  head  dropped  and  his  withered 
face  hidden  in  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

These  two  men  were  both  strangers  to  Mr.  Leegh,  who 
did  not  feel  inclined  to  commence  his  work  of  expulsion 
with  the  giant  or  his  immediate  protege. 

A  little  further  off,  on  his  left,  stood  a  group  of  three — 
Ran,  Mike  and  Will  Walling — talking  together.  These 


234  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

were  also  strangers  to  Mr.  Leegh,  who  did  not  feel  disposed 
to  begin  with  them  either. 

Still  further  off,  straight  before  him,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  was  another  group,  each  individual  of  which  he 
recognized.  These  were  the  Rev.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell, 
and  their  daughter,  Jennie,  whom  he  had  often  visited  at 
their  parsonage  in  Med'ge ;  and  to  Mr.  Campbell  he  had  but 
lately  written,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  warning  him 
to  leave  the  rectory,  to  which  he  himself — Leegh — had  been 
appointed. 

Here,  then,  was  his  opportunity.  He  would  begin  with 
these. 

The  rector — as  we  must  call  him  now,  since  his  induction 
into  the  Haymore  living  bv  Mr.  Randolph  Hay — was  seated 
on  a  corner  sofa  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  the  latter  sit 
ting  between  her  father  and  her  mother,  with  her  distressed 
face  hidden  in  that  mother's  bosom.  Yet  Leegh  had  in 
stinctively  recognized  her  as  well  as  her  parents. 

He  went  up,  nodded  to  Mr.  Campbell  and  offered  his 
hand. 

The  rector  bowed  in  return,  but  did  not  take  Leegh's 
hand. 

"I  am  surprised  to  see  you  here  this  evening,  sir.  How 
do  you  do,  Mrs.  Campbell?  I  hope  Miss  Jennie  is  quite 
well,"  said  Leegh  in  an  offhand  way,  not  choosing  to  notice 
the  rector's  coolness,  not  knowing  or  suspecting  that  he  was 
the  rector. 

"I  am  here  at  the  invitation  of  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,"  said 
Mr.  Campbell. 

"My  daughter  is  quite  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Leegh,"  said 
Mrs.  Campbell. 

Both  the  husband  and  the  wife  answering  his  careless 
greeting  simultaneously. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  of  Miss  Jennie's  good  health.  She  is 
only  tired,  then,  perhaps,  or  sleepy  ?  Did  you  say  you  were 
here  at  the  invitation  of  the  squire,  Mr.  Campbell  ?» 

"Yes,  sir;  of  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,"  calmly  replied  the 
rector. 

"Then  he  must  have  been  even  drun — I  mean,  more  in 
comprehensible  than  he  is  now.  Pray,  did  he  also  invite  all 
these  other  people  I  see  here?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  235 

"I  think  not.  He  did  not  invite  you,  or  your  sister,  or 
Capt.  Montgomery,"  replied  Mr.  Campbell. 

"Didn't  invite  me  or  my  sister!  Why,  my  sister  is  his 
wife,  man,  and  I  am  his  brother-in-law !  And  he  brought 
us  down  with  him  to-night." 

"I  think  not/'  said  the  rector. 

"You  think  not!  Why,  here  we  are.  anyway,  I  <.m 
I.  There  is  my  sister  in  that  armchair,  somewhat  prostrated 
and  disgusted,  to  be  sure.  And  there  is  her  husband  on  that 
high-back  throne,  somewhat  'disguised/  as  one  might  say." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken  in  all  that  you  have  said," 
quietly  remarked  Mr.  Campbell. 

"I  think  that  everybody  in  the  room,  except  myself,  is 
drunk  or  demented,  or  most  likely  both  !"  exclaimed  Leegh, 
losing  his  temper  and  now  speaking  recklessly,  for  he  was 
not  yet  quite  sober. 

Mr.  Campbell  made  no  reply  to  these  words. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain  yourself?"  rudely 
demanded  Leegh. 

"I  have  no  explanation  to  make  about  myself.  For  any 
other  questions  you  would  like  to  ask  I  must  refer  you  to 
Mr.  Randolph  Hay  himself." 

.  "He  is  in  a  fine  condition  to  answer  questions,  is  he  not, 
now?  Look  at  him!"  said  Leegh,  pointing  to  the  abject 
creature  in  the  chair. 

The  rector  looked  and  sighed  to  see  the  human  wreck. 

"Now,  then,  will  you  explain?" 

"No;  I  must  still  refer  you  to  Mr.  Randolph  Hay." 

"Confound  your  insolence!"  between  his  grinding  teeth. 
And  then,  aloud :  "You  got  my  letter,  I  presume?" 

"Warning  me  to  vacate  the  rectory?" 

"Of  course.  What  else  should  I  have  written  to  you 
about?" 

"I  got  your  letter." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  are  ready  to  go.  Because  I  shall  cer 
tainly  enter  into  possession  on  the  first  of  January,"  said 
Leegh  rudely. 

"The  rectory  is  even  now  quite  ready  for  the  new  in 
cumbent." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  though  I  shall  not  care  to  take  pos 
session  until  the  first  of  January.  And  now,  Mr.  Campbell, 
excuse  me  for  reminding  you  that  the  hour  is  late,  and  sug- 


28G  FOR  WHOSE   3 AXIS? 

gesting  that,  as  this  is  the  evening  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph  Hay's  arrival,  it  would  be  in  good  form  for  visitors 
to  retire." 

"Thank  you;  but  I  must  speak  to  my  host  and  hostess 
first." 

At  this  moment  Judy  came  up  from  some  obscure  part  of 
the  big  room  in  which  she  had  been  lurking  like  a  frightened 
kitten. 

Mr.  Campbell  made  room  for  her,  and  Judy  sat  down 
beside  her  friends. 

"Who  is  this  young  lady?  Will  you  introduce  me  to 
her  ?"  said  Leegh  with  one  of  his  lady-killing  smiles. 

"Excuse  me,  sir.  I  would  rather  not  do  so,"  said  Mr. 
Campbell. 

And  then  turning  to  Judy,  who  had  looked  up  with  sur 
prise  and  pity,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  see  any  one  pained 
or  mortified,  he  added  in  explanation : 

"No,  my  dear;  I  cannot  do  it." 

Then,  with  a  smothered  imprecation,  Leegh  turned  on  his 
heel  and  sauntered  down  the  room  to  rejoin  his  sister,  and 
feeling  as  if  he  were  in  a  very  weird  and  ugly  dream. 

In  the  meanwhile,  however,  Kan,  Mike  and  Will  Wall 
ing  had  been  taking  counsel  together,  and  often  glancing 
from  the  stupefied  figure  of  Gentleman  Geff,  who  still  sat 
with  blanched  face,  dropped  jaw  and  starting  eyes,  staring 
into  vacancy,  to  that  of  Lamia  Leegh,  who  reclined  on  her 
chair  with  closed  eyes  and  in  a  half-fainting  condition. 

At  length  Ran  from  the  pity  of  his  heart  said : 

"Walling,  I  cannot  bear  to  expose  that  poor  woman  to 
the  awful  humiliation  of  hearing  the  whole  of  that  fellow's 
villainies  exposed.  I  will  go  into  the  library  and  persuade 
her  poor  father  to  receive  her  in  there  and  save  her  from 
this  trial.  And  do  you  go  to  her  and  break  the  news  of  Mr. 
Legg's  presence  in  the  house.  You  need  tell  her  no  more 
as  yet.  The  worst  need  not  be  told  until  later." 

"Very  well,  I  will  do  as  you  say.  There  is  her  precious 
brother  talking  to  Mr.  Campbell.  I  wonder  what  he  is  say 
ing,"  said  Will  Walling  as  he  went  up  and  stood  beside  the 
chair  of  Lamia  Leegh. 

She  never  moved  or  opened  her  eyes.  She  did  not  seem 
to  have  perceived  his  presence.  He  wished  to  address  her, 
but  hardly  knew  what  name  to  call  her.  If  he  should  call 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  237 

her  by  her  real  name,  or  even  by  the  name  she  bore  in  New 
York  before  her  marirage,  it  would  startle  and  offend  her. 
It  would  seem  a  deliberate  insult.  If  he  should  call  her  by 
Ban's  name  it  would  be  by  a  false  one. 

The  last  alternative,  however,  was  the  one  on  which  he 
decided  to  act.  It  could  do  no  harm,  he  thought,  to  humor 
her  delusion  by  calling  hei  by  the  name  she  honestly  sup 
posed  to  be  hers  by  right  of  marriage. 

He  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  stooped, 
and  said  softly: 

"Mrs.  Hay!" 

She  started,  opened  her  eyes,  sat  up  and  gazed  at  him. 

"I  have  startled  you.    I  am  sorrv,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Walling!  You  here  !  In  England !  At  Haymore  !" 
she  exclaimed,  gazing  at  him  as  if  she  could  not  turn  away 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,  as  you  see!"  he  answered. 

"And  we  did  not  know  you  were  coming.  At  least,  I  did 
not.  And,  oh  !  what  brought  you  here?  I  don't  mean  to  be 
rude,  though  the  question  seems  a  rude  one." 

"It  is  a  most  natural  one.  I  came — for  a  change,"  re 
plied  Will  Walling  evasively. 

"And  when  did  you  arrive?" 

"In  England?     Tuesday." 

"And  when  did  you  come  to  Haymore?" 

"Late  last  night" 

"You  came  straight  here,  then,  expecting  to  find  us  at 
home,  and  found  no  one  to  receive  you — except  the  serv 
ants,  of  course.  I  hope  they  made  you  comfortable.  And, 
of  course  they  told  you  that  we  were  to  be  home  to-night." 

"Yes,  of  course,  thank  you." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  here.  And,  oh,  Mr.  Walling,  since 
you  are  here,  will  you  please  to  tell  me  who  all  these  stran 
gers  are  and  why  they  are  here,  and  what,  oh !  what  has  re 
duced  my  husband  to  that  condition?  He  looks  as  if  he 
were  struck  with  idiocy,"  said  Lamia  with  ill-concealed 
scorn  and  hatred. 

Will  Walling  thought  within  himself  that  she  would  have 

little  to  suffer  from  wounded  affections,  whatever  she  might 

have  to  endure  from  humbled  pride.     Still,  he  pitied  her, 

nad  answered  gently : 

|     "  That  group  on  the  sofa,  to  whom  your  brother  is  speak- 


238  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

ing,  consists  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  his  wife  and  daugh 
ter,  who  are  quite  old  friends  of  Mr.  Leegh." 

Lamia  had  never  heard  the  name  of  Jennie  Montgomery's 
parents.  She  scrutinized  the  group,  and  then  remarked : 

"That  girl  who  is  leaning  on  the  elder  woman's  shoulder 
reminds  me  strongly  of  some  one  whom  I  have  seen  some 
where,  but  I  cannot  remember  where,  for  I  cannot  quite  see 
her  clearly  at  this  distance.  And  who  are  the  other  people 
in  the  room?" 

"They  are  all  friends  of  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  who  knew 
him  in  California,  before  he  came  into  his  estate." 

"  Oh,  how  interesting !    And  they  came  here  to  see  him  ?" 

"Yes,  and  to  give  him  a  reception  in  his  own  house,"  said 
Will  Walling,  not  quite  truly. 

"  Oh,  how  interesting !  And,  Mr.  Walling,  who  is  that 
pretty  young  woman  who  has  just  gone  up  to  the  clergy 
man's  party?" 

"Some  friend  of  the  family.  Here  comes  your  brother. 
He  has  just  left  the  group.  And  before  he  comes,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Hay,  I  must  tell  you  that  there  are  others,  or  rather, 
there  is  one  other  person  in  this  house  in  whom  you  are 
more  intimately  interested  than  in  all  the  rest,"  said  Will 
Walling  very  gravely. 

Lamia  looked  a  little  disturbed. 

"Who  can  that  be?"  she  inquired  in  a  low,  faltering 
voice. 

"Can  you  not  surmise?  Think  what  near  relatives  you 
have  living." 

"I — have  no  near  relatives  living — except  my  brother, 
and — my  father." 

"Your  father  is  here,  longing  to  see  his  only  daughter." 

"My  father  here  ?  What  has  he  come  for  ?"  demanded  this 
Goneril  in  so  sharp  a  tone  of  displeasure  and  annoyance 
that  Will  Walling  lost  all  pity  for  her  and  spoke  near  his 
purpose  when  he  answered: 

"He  is  waiting  here  in  fatherly  love  and  compassion,  to 
be  a  shelter  to  his  onlv  daughter  in  the  hour  of  her  utmost 
need." 

Lamia  turned  deadly  pale  and  sick.  The  words  of  the 
lawyer,  taken  together  with  the  awful  exclamation  of  her 
husband  before  he  fell  into  his  stupor,  warned  her  that 
some  terrible  revelation  was  at  hand. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

k 

"Oh!  this  is  some  horrid  nightmare!"  she  muttered. 

At  this  crisis  the  sauntering  and  ur.  steady  steps  of  Mr. 
Leegh  brought  him  up  to  his  sister's  .side. 

"And  now !"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is  all  this?  And  who 
the  dev — deuce — mischief  are  you,  sir?" 

"Oh,  Cassias !"  cried  Lamia 'in  great  excitement.  "This 
is  Mr.  Walling,  of  the  firm  of  Walling  &  Walling,  New 
York,  of  whom  you  have  heard  us  speak.  There  is  some* 
thing  dreadful  the  matter  that  has  gathered  all  these  people 
here.  He  tells  me  that  our  father  is  here  also " 

"The  old  man!  What  is  the — what  has  brought  him 
here?"  demanded  Leegh  in  as  sharp  a  tone  as  his  sister 
had  used. 

Will  Walling  was  as  much  disgusted  with  the  one  as  with 
the  other.  He  answered  the  question : 

"Your  father  is  here,  Mr.  Leegh,  to  succor  his  daughter 
in  her  distress.  Presently  I  shall  ask  you,  her  brother,  to 
lead  her  to  your  father's  presence." 

"It  is  my  husband.  My  beast  of  a  husband!  What  has 
he  been  doing !  Oh,  Heaven !  I  heard  him  say  something 
about  murder,  and  I  thought  it  was  only  his  drunken  rav 
ing.  Has  he  committed  murder,  then,  and  will  he  be 
hanged?  If  so,  I  will  never  show  my  face  in  England  or 
New  York  again !"  exclaimed  Lamia,  losing  all  decent  self- 
control  and  becoming  hysterical,  not  from  anxious  affection, 
but  from  alarmed  pride. 

"  Compose  yourself,  madam.  There  is  no  murder  on  his 
hands.  There  is  nothing  but  what  you  may  get  over  in  the 
peace  of  your  father's  house,"  said  Will  Walling. 

"Why  cannot  you  tell  me  what  it  is,  then?'"'  demanded 
Lamia,  breaking  into  sobs  and  tears. 

"Yes !  why  the  mischief  can't  you  speak  out?" 

"Because  I  gave  my  word  not  to  do  so.  Because,  in  any 
case,  I  wrould  not  do  so.  Because  it  is  not  even  proper  that 
I  should.  And,  finally,  because  it  is  best  that  your  sister 
should  hear  what  she  must  from  her  father." 

"It  is  a  nightmare !  A  horrid,  hideous  nightmare !"  cried 
Lamia,  sobbing  violently. 

"When  are  we  to  hear  this  news,  whatever  it  may  be — 
this  mystery,  this  calamity — from  the  old  gentleman?" 
roughly  demanded  Leegh. 

"When  the  gentleman  who  is  with  him  now  comes  out  to 


240  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

tell  us  that  your  father  is  ready  to  receive  you,"  replied 
Will  AYalling. 

"By  -  —  !  Upon  my  honor,  you  are  very  cool,  sir," 
sneered  Leegh. 

"It  is  a  nightmare!  A  ghastly,  deadly  nightmare!" 
wailed  Lamia. 

"It  it  the  day  of  doom,  and  the  quick  and  the  dead  rise 
in  judgment!"  groaned  a  deep,  hollow  voice. 

It  was  that  of  Gentleman  Geff.  His  rolling  eyes  had 
fallen  upon  a  group  composed  of  Mike,  Dandy  and  Long- 
m&n,  and  he  sat  staring  in  horror  upon  them. 

"That  drunken  idiot  ought  to  be  carried  up  to  bed, 
Lamia,"  said  Leegh  in  strong  disgust. 

"I  will  not  have  him  touched,"  replied  the  woman,  with 
a  shudder. 

In  the  meantime  Randolph  Hay  had  crossed  the  hall  and 
turned  the  knob  of  the  library  door.  He  found  it  locked. 
Then  he  rapped. 

"Who  is  there?"  inquired  the  quavering  voice  of  John 


'It  is  I,  your  friend,  Hay,"  replied  Ran. 

The  door  was  instantly  opened  by  Julia  Legg. 

"Please  excuse  us  and  come  in,  Mr.  Hay.  We  only  locked 
the  door  to  keep  that  terrible  man  from  bursting  in  upon 
us,"  said  Julia  apologetically. 

"Quite  right,"  replied  Ran,  good-humoredly,  as  he  en 
tered  the  room. 

He  found  John  Legg  still  sitting  at  the  narrow  table 
from  which  the  little  supper  had  not  yec  been  removed.  The 
poor  man  looked  pale,  haggard,  anxious  and  many  years 
older  than  he  had  seemed  ?  few  hours  before. 

Ran  also  took  the  precaution  to  lock  the  door  before  he 
came  and  seated  himself  at  the  table  opposite  John  Legg. 
Julia  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  her  husband,  sat  down 
and  took  his  hands  in  hers. 

"You  look  troubled,  Mr.  Hay.  You  have  something  more 
to  tell  me  about  my  poor  girl,  and  you  shrink  from  telling 
it.  But  speak  out,  sir.  I  can  bear  it,"  said  John  Legg, 
with  stoical  resignation. 

"No,  indeed,  my  friend,  it  is  nothing  more  that  I  have 
to  communicate  of  her;  at  least,  nothing  ill.  I  came  in 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

here  only,  to  plead  for  a  little  change  in  our  plans,"  said 
Ean  soothingly. 

"What  is  it,  dear  sir?  Your  kind  will  should  be  our 
law." 

"By  no  means!"  earnestly  exclaimed  Ean.  "But  the 
change  I  wished  to  make  is  this :  You  remember  that  you 
proposed  to  keep  out  of  your  daughter's  way  until  she 
should  have  heard  the  worst  that  she  must  hear  of  her  real 
position?" 

"Yes.  I  shrank,  and  still  shrink,  from  adding  to  her 
pain  and  mortification  by  my  presence,"  sighed  the  un 
happy  father. 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Legg,  consider  for  one  moment.  She 
has  not  yet  heard  the  humiliating  facts,  but  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  she  should  hear  them  to-night.  Xow  is  it 
not  better  that  she  should  hear  them  from  your  lips  than 
from  mine  or  from  my  lawyer's  ?  Would  she  not  suffer  less 
to  have  the  truth  told  her  gently  here,  in  private,  by  the  lips 
of  her  father,  than  out  there,  in  public,  by  the  lips  of  a 
stranger  ?" 

While  Ran  spoke  John  Legg  sat  with  his  gray  head  bowed 
upon  his  hands  in  deep,  sorrowful  reflection,  and  when  Ean 
ceased  to  speak  the  poor  father  made  no  reply. 

"What  do  you  think  about  this,  Mr.  Legg?"  gently  per 
sisted  Ean. 

"I  don't  know  !  I  don't  know !"  moaned  the  old  man  in 
a  heartbroken  tone.  "What  do  you  say,  Julia  ?"  he  piteously 
inquired,  raising  his  head  and  appealing  to  his  wife. 

She  took  his  hand  again,  and  looking  tenderly  in  his  trou 
bled  face,  answered  gravely : 

"I  think,  John,  indeed,  I  think,  that  you  had  better  do 
as  Mr.  Hay  advises.  It  would  be  dreadful  for  that  poor 
girl  to  hear  of  her  misfortune  facing  all  those  people  in 
there !  And  vou  know  the  man  who  betrayed  her  and  com 
mitted  countless  other  crimes  must  be  exposed  in  public 
and  then  expelled  from  the  house." 

Julia  Legg  spoke  as  she  thought,  but,  in  fact,  Ean  had  no 
intention  of  turning  the  wretch  in  question  out  of  doors  in 
this  freezing  winter  night. 

"Julia,  my  dear,  I  have  such  confidence  in  your  judg 
ment  that  I  will  do  as  you  say,"  replied  John  Legg  in  a 
low  voice.  Then  turning  to  Ean,  he  caid : 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Mr.  Hay,  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you  for  all  the  aicf 
and  comfort  arid  counsel  you  give  me.  You  may,  sir,  if 
you  please,  bring  or  send  my  rioor  child  to  me." 

"I  will  do  so  at  once,"  said  Ran,  and  he  arose  and  left 
the  room. 

"And  I  will  stand  by  you  through  all,  John.  I  will  be 
as  good  a  mother  to  your  unhappy  girl  as  I  am  a  true  wife 
to  you,"  said  Julia,  still  holding  his  hand  in  hers. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

And  so  they  waited  in  suspense  for  a  few  moments  until 
the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Leegh  entered,  as  usual,  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  his  nose  in  the  air,  and  his  sister  on  his 
arm.  His  head  was  bowed  upon  her  breast,  and  her  face 
was  pale  and  her  eyes  red  and  swollen. 

John  Legg  arose  and  went  to  meet  her  with  trembling 
nerves  and  outstretched  arms.  He  was  but  a  little  over 
fifty  years  of  age,  yet  for  the  last  few  hours  he  looked  to  be 
over  seventy. 

"My  dear,  dear  Lyddy !  My  own  poor  child!"  he  said, 
drawing  her  to  his  breast  and  holding  her  there,  while  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  his  son  and  said: 

"How  do  you  do,  Clay?" 

"I  am  well,  sir,  thank  you.  How  do  you  do  yourself?" 
inquired  the  dutiful  son  in  an  offhand,  nonchalant  manner. 

"As  you  see  me,  Clay.  Not  very  well,"  replied  the 
grieved  father,  as  he  sank  into  a  large  cushioned  chair  that 
his  wife  had  pushed  up  to  him,  and  drew  his  daughter  down 
upon  his  lap  with  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  where  she 
lay  sobbing  her  soul  forth  in  pride  and  anger — not  in  love 
or  sorrow.  She  had  not  spoken  one  word  as  yet  since  she 
entered  the  room. 

"Clay  Legg,  as  we  must  henceforth  call  him,  because 
it  is  his  only  right  name,  threw  himself  into  another  arm 
chair  and  said: 

"I  am  told,  sir,  that  you  have  something  to  communicate 
to  us." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  243 

"Yes,  I  have,  Clay.  Do  not  cry  so.  Lyddy,  my  dear.  I 
will  stand  by  you.  lrour  father  will  stand  by  his  daughter, 
and  love  her  and  comfort  her,  and  shelter  and  protect  her 
against  all  the  world,"  he  said,  turning  away  from  his  in 
solent  son  and  bending  over  his  wildly  hysterical  daughter. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Clay  Legg,  "since  you  have  some 
thing  to  communicate,  hadn't  you  better  communicate  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  his  father,  with  a  sigh. 

"But  first,"  exclaimed  Clay  Legg,  "here  is  a  stranger 
present.  Are  we  to  discuss  private  family  affairs  before  a 
stranger  ?  And  who  is  that  person,  anyway  ?"  he  demanded, 
jerking  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Legg,  who  had 
retired  to  a  short  distance  and  where  she  sat  down. 

"Oh,  I  ought  to  beg  her  pardon  !  For  the  moment  I  for 
got.  Julia,  my  love,  will  you  step  this  way?" 

Mrs.  Legg  came  promptly  at  her  husband's  request,  and 
stood  before  the  group. 

"My  dear  Julia,  this  young  man  here  is  my  son,  Clay, 
whom  you  have  never  seen  before.  Clay,  this  is  Mrs.  Legg, 
my  wife,  your  new  mother.  I  hope  yon  will  be  the  best  of 
friends !"  pleaded  the  husband  and  father. 

"Indeed,  I  hope  so,  too!"  earnestly  responded  the  new 
wife,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  with  hearty  good  will  to  her 
stepson. 

He  drew  himself  up  stiffly  and  bowed,  ignoring  her 
offered  hand. 

John  Legg  noticed  his  manner  and  frowned  with  pain, 
not  anger,  and  to  cover  the  awkwardness,  said : 

"And  this  weeping  girl  on  my  bosom  is  my  daughter. 
Lydia !  She  cannot  speak  to  you  yet.  my  dear.  She  has 
not  even  spoken  to  me,  her  father,  whom  she  has  not  seen 
before  for  the  last  three  year? !  But  she  will  be  better  pres 
ently,  and  then  I  feel  sure  that  you  and  she  at  least  will  be 
good  friends." 

"Yes,  indeed,  John!  I  know  we  shall!"  heartily  re 
sponded  Julia. 

"Now  sit  down,  my  dear,  and  make  yourself  comfortable. 
You  already  know  that  I  have  a  painful  revelation  to  make 
to  my  son  and  daughter  here;  but  as  the  misfortune  to  be 
spoken  of  was  caused  by  no  conscious  complicity  of  theirs, 
it  shouH  not  cause  either  of  them  too  much  grief,  I  think." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Xo,  indeed!  It  was  not  their  fault,  so  they  should  not 
mourn  over  it,"  warmly  assented  Julia. 

"See  here,  sir!  Are  you  going  to  discuss  private  family 
matters  in  the  presence  of  this  person?"  demanded  Clay 

T/pcrcr 
Jjrt-e>o- 

"  'This  person/  sir,  is  my  beloved  wrife.  I  have  no  secrets 
from  her.  She  already  knows  as  much  as  I  do  myself,  and 
as  much  as  I  have  to  tell  you,"  replied  John  Legg,  speaking 
for  the  first  time  with  some  severity. 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Am  I  personally  concerned  in  what  you  are  about  to 
communicate  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger?" 

"No,  not  personally — not  at  all  interested  except  through 
your  sister." 

"Then  that  is  her  concern.  If  she  choose "  And  he 

turned  on  his  heel  and  left  his  sentence  unfinished. 

"You  had  better  let  me  go,  John,  dear,  if  the  young 
people  object  to  my  presence  during  this  interview,"  said 
Julia  gently. 

"My  daughter,  do  you  object  to  my  wife's  presence  here 
while  I  make  the  revelation  of  which  she  knows  the  whole 
nature?"  whispered  John  Legg  to  the  agonized  girl  on  his 
bosom. 

"Oh !  why  should  I  object  to  anything?  I  know — before 
you  tell  me — that  your  dreadful  news — concerns  some  crime 
of  my  wretched  husband!  If  not  a  murder,  that  would 
hang  him,  then  a  forgery  or  some  other  felony  that  will 
send  him  to  penal  servitude,  and  will,  in  any  case,  be  known 
all  over  England  to-morrow.  Let  whom  you  like  hear  the 
horrid  story,"  replied  the  wroman. 

When  she  first  began  to  speak  she  gasped  and  panted, 
but  as  she  went  on  she  gained  more  command  over  her  voice. 

Julia  Legg  was  full  of  pity  for  this  ungracious  creature, 
and  she  came  and  knelt  down  beside  her  husband's  chair, 
and  took  his  daughter's  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it,  murmur 
ing  softly: 

"Believe  me,  oh  !  believe  me !  I  will  do  all  in  my  power 
to  lighten  any  trouble  you  may  have,  and  to  make  you  com 
fortable  and  contented,  if  not  happy." 

Lamia — as  we  must  continue  to  call  her  because  that  is 
the  name  by  which  the  reader  has  known  her  from  the  first 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  245 

— Lamia  drew  her  hand  away  from  the  kindly  hands  that 
clasped  it,  and  Julia  Legg,  with  a  sigh,  arose  and  resumed 
her  seat. 

"My  own  dear  daughter,  before  I  tell  you  anything  more 
I  must  remind  you  again  that  in  my  heart  and  in  my  home 
you  have  a  haven  of  peace  and  love,  of  rest  and  safety  from 
all  the  storms  of  life.  Do  von  not  know  and  feel  this,  my 
daughter?" 

"Oh,  yes;  you  are  my  father,  and  that  is  understood," 
she  answered  coldly,  as  if  a  parent's  boundless  love,  pity 
and  forgiveness  were  such  mere  matters  of  course  that  they 
needed  no  recognition.  "But  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  at 
once,  and  be  done  with  it.  What  has  my  miserable  husband, 
Randolph  Hay,  done?"  she  demanded. 

John  Legg  sighed  deeply.  He  did  not  think  "how 
sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thankless 
child,"  because  he  had  never  seen  the  lines,  but  he  sighed 
more  than  once  as  he  answered : 

"In  the  first  place,  my  daughter,  your  miserable  husband, 
as  you  call  him,  is  not  Randolph  Hay,  and  has  not  a  shadow 
of  a  right  to  that  name  or  to  the  estate  of  Haymore." 

Lamia  started  up  and  looked  her  father  in  the  face. 

"Who  and  what  is  he,  then?"  she  fiercely  demanded. 

"An  adventurer  with  many  aliases;  a  fraudulent  claim 
ant  of  the  Haymore  estates,  who  has  sustained  his  false  posi 
tion  by  robbery,  forgery  and  perjury,  but  who  has  been  re 
cently  detected,  and  who  is  about  to  be  exposed  and  pun 
ished." 

"I  am  not  surprised!  I  am  not  surprised!  I  expected 
something  like  this!  I  did!  I  did!  Tell  me,  does  Mr. 
Will  Walling  know  anything  about  it?" 

"He  knows  all  about  it.  His  business  in  England  is  to 
bring  that  man  to  justice." 

Lamia  sprang  from  her  father's  arms,  throwing  him  sud 
denly  back  by  the  violence  of  her  motion,  and  began  to 
walk  wildly  up  and  down  the  floor,  exclaiming  and  gesticu 
lating  like  a  maniac,  and  thinking  only  of  herself  and  of 
her  own  interests,  and  of  no  one  and  nothing  else  under  the 
sun. 

"  To  bring  me  to  this  !  Oh,  the  villain !  the  villain !  But 
I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him !  I  will  never 
speak  to  him  again !  I  will  never  look  on  his  face  again ! 


246  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Do  you  hear  me,  papa?"  she  cried,  suddenly  pausing,  witH 
flashing  eyes,  before  her  father's  chair.  "Do  you  hear  me, 
I  say  ?  I  will  never  live  with  that  felon  again — never  speak 
to  him — never  look  at  him !" 

"My  child,  you  are  quite  right  in  your  resolution.  It 
would  be  wrong  and  even  criminal  in  you  to  do  otherwise," 
said  John  Legg,  gently  drawing  his  daughter  into  his  arms 
again  and  adding  sorrowfully,  "for  I  have  something  more 
to  tell  you." 

"You  could  not  tell  me  anything  more  shameful  than 
you  have  already  told  me !  Even  if  you  should  prove  that 
that  villain  had  been  a  murderer,  as  well  as  a  robber,  forger 
and  perjurer,  it  would  not  be  worse,  since  hanging  is  no 
more  disgraceful  than  penal  servitude.  To  be  the  wife  of 
a  felon — the  wife  of  a  convict !  But  I  will  not  be !  I  will 
be  separated  by  law  !  I  will  be  divorced !" 

This  she  repeated  over  so  often  and  with  so  much  excite 
ment  that  at  lasi  her  father  said  to  her: 

"My  poor  child,  you  will  not  need  to  appeal  to  the  law." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  impressed  by  the 
solemnity  of  his  manner. 

"You  will  not  require  a  divorce,"  he  replied, 

"That  is  just,  in  effect,  what  you  said  before.  Why  will 
I  not  require  a  divorce?  The  man  is  not  dead,  nor  going 
to  die  !  He  will  not  commit  suicide.  No,  indeed,  trust  him 
ifor  that !  He  is  too  great  a.  coward !  And  he  is  in  no 
danger  of  being  hanged.  How,  then,  should  you  say  that 
I  will  not  require  a  divorce,  since  death  is  not  likely  to  re 
lieve  me  of  my  felon  husband — ugh !"  she  exclaimed  in 
strong  disgust. 

"My  dear,  the  man  has  never  been  your  husband,"  he 
said  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"What?"  she  cried,  aghast. 

"The  man  has  never  been  your  husband!"  he  repeated 
firmly  and  solemnly. 

"  You  are  mad !  We  are  all  mad  together,  I  think !  What 
— under — heaven — do  you  mean  ?"  she  cried,  staring  at  him 
with  starting  eyes. 

"  This  man,  under  his  true  name  of  Kightly  Montgomery, 
married  Jennie  Campbell,  the  daughter  of  the  curate  of 
Medge,  in  Hantz,  more  than  two  years  before  he  ever  saw 
your  face.  His  wife  is  living  now.  She  is  in  the  drawing- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  247 

room  across  the  hall.  My  wife  Julia  here  knows  all  about 
this  first  marriage." 

AVhile  John  Legg  spoke  his  daughter  stared  as  if  her 
eyes  would  have  started  from  out  their  sockets.  Then  sud 
denly  she  sprang  up  and  rushed  across  the  room  to  the  side 
where  her  brother  sat  with  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other, 
his  head  thrown  back,  and  his  hands  clasped  above  it,  his 
face  wearing  a  cynical  expression. 

She  paused  before  him,  her  eyes  flaming. 

"Caseins!"  she  said  in  a  voice  half  choked  with  raging 
hatred  and  longing  revenge.  "Cassius,  do  you  hear  what 
papa  has  said?  Do  YOU  hear  that  your  sister  has  been  de 
ceived,  betrayed  by  the  basest  of  dastards  and  criminals ! 
Cassius,  kill  that  man !  kill  him. !  kill  him !  kill  him !" 

Clay  Legg  burst  into  a  low,  cynical  laugh. 

"Don't  let  us  be  tragic,  whatever  we  are,  Lyddy.  It  is  a 
pity  you  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  be  so  easily  taken  in. 
A  greater  pity  that  you  should  have  brought  discredit  on 
your  family.  But  you  are  not  the  first  woman  who  has  ever 
been  fooled  and  laughed  at.  But  as  for  me  getting  into  a 
broil  with  the  fellow  on  your  account — no,  thank  you !  It 
would  be  unbecoming  to  the  cloth,  and  get  me  into  trouble 
with  the  bishop.  And  as  to  killing  him !  Do  you  really 
think  I  propose  to  do  murder  and  get  myself  hanged  for 
your  folly  ?  No,  thank  you,  I  say  again !  You  had  better 
go  and  hide  yourself  down  in  the  greengrocer's  shop  at 
Hedge  along  with  papa  and  stepmamm?.,  while  I  shall  leave 
the  country  where  my  sister's  conduct  has  made  it  impos 
sible  for  me  to  hold  up  my  head  and  look  honorable  men  in 
the  face." 

While  this  brutal  brother  spoke  his  sister  stood  before 
him  pallid,  staring  and  biting  her  lip  until  the  blood  flowed. 

"  Shame  on  you,  dastard,  to  speak  to  the  unhappy  girl  in 
such  a  manner!  Leave  the  room,  sir!"  said  John  Legg, 
rising  and  opening  the  library  door. 

"I  did  not  want  to  come  in  here  at  first,  and  I  am  very 
glad  to  get  out,"  retorted  Clay  Legg,  with  an  insulting 
laugh,  as  he  walked  off. 

John  Legg  shut  the  door  after  him  and  then  turned  to 
his  miserable  daughter.  She  had  thrown  herself  down  on 
a  sofa,  where  she  lay  with  her  face  in  her  hands. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

He  kneeled  beside  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  head, 
murmuring  softly: 

"You  must  content  yourself  with  our  love  and  our  poor 
home.  These  are  yours  forever.  You  have  tried  other  love 
and  found  it  fail  you.  Paternal  love  never  fails,"  he  con 
tinued,  and  while  he  spoke  he  did  not  cease  to  smooth  and 
caress  her  head  with  his  hand. 

"And  to  think,"  she  moaned  in  a  muffled  voice,  with  her 
face  downward  and  hidden  with  her  hands;  "to  think  it 
was  his  deserted  wife  that  I  shopped  for  in  the  last  days 
before  my  marriage  with  him — that  it  was  his  deserted  wife 
with  her  child — his  child — that  came  over  in  the  same* 
steamer  with  him  and  myself  on  our  bridal  trip  !  Ah  !  now 
I  know  why  he  got  off  the  ship  at  Queenstown  !  It  was  to 
get  out  of  her  sight  ^nd  to  avoid  encountering  her  father 
who  was  to  meet  her  at  Liverpool.  She  was  his  lawful  wife, 
and  knew  it,  and  she  knew  then  that  I  was — what  was  I? — 
what  am  I  ?  Oh  !  I  shall  go  mad  !  mad !  mad !"  she  shrieked, 
flinging  off  her  father's  hand,  springing  from  the  sofa, 
clasping  her  head  between  her  palms  and  walking  wildly 
up  and  down  the  floor. 

"My  dear,  dear  child,  don't  go  on  like  this!  Come  and 
sit  down.  Try  to  compose  yourself,"  pleaded  poor  John 
Legg,  walking  after  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  hold  your  tongue !  Let  me  alone !  Don't  I  know 
what  you  are  thinking  in  your  heart  all  this  time  ?  You  are 
saying  to  yourself  that  this  is  just  what  you  always  ex 
pected  !  Just  what  I  deserved !  You  are  glad  of  it  in  your 
heart !  Glad  to  see  me  punished !  Glad  to  see  me  morti 
fied!"  she  cried  fiercely,  angry  with  her  father  because  she 
was  angry  with  herself,  her  betrayer  and  all  the  world. 

"My  dear  Lyddy !  My  darling  girl !  I  know  you  are  not 
accountable  for  what  you  say  now.  I  blame  you  for  nothing, 
child,  not  even  for  your  words.  I  could  not  have  the 
cruelty  to  do  it.  But  try  to  compose  yourself  and  believe 
that  we  love  you  and  will  serve  you  and  comfort  you ! 
Lyddy,  my  daughter,  we  cannot  offer  you  the  wealth  and 
grandeur  and  luxuries  that  you  have  been  lately  used  to, 
but,  my  dear,  a  safe  home  and  solid  comforts,  and  peaceful 
days  and  family  affection  you  shall  not  lack,  my  girl — 
you  shall  never  lack,"  pleaded  her  father;  and  while  he 
spoke  he  followed  her  up  and  down  with  outstretched  arms 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  249 

ready  to  infold  her,  up  and  down,  pleading  with  her,  turn 
ing  when  she  turned  until  at  length  she  whirled  around 
upon  him  and  hissed  at  him  through  her  set  teeth,  her  hard 
words  dropping  like  leaden  bullets  from  the  mold: 

"Will  —  you  —  mind  —  your  —  own  —  business?  I  am  of 
age!  I  thought  I  was  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay,  of  Haymore  ! 
Lady  of  the  manor  here  !  I  entered  this  house  as  its  lawful 
mistress!  For  what?  To  find  myself  deceived,  betrayed, 
entrapped  !  Now  what  am  I  !  Something  that  must  not 
even  be  named  to  respectable  ears  like  yours  !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child  !  To  me  you  are  my  wronged  and 
blameless  daughter  !  Well,  rave  on  !  I  cannot  help  it, 
though  it  cuts  my  heart  like  a  sword  !  Maybe  it  relieves  you 
to  talk  like  this.  But  presently  I  hope  you  will  take  thought 
and  come  home  with  me  to  be  comforted,"  pleaded  John 


Lamia  burst  into  a  cruel,  sarcastic  laugh. 

"The  greengrocer's  house  on  Market  Street,  Medge,  of 
course,  would  be  a  perfect  paradise  to  me  !  I  can  imagine 
the  back  parlor  full  of  the  fragrance  of  onions,  leeks  and 
other  garden  stuff  from  the  shop,  and  enlivened  with  the 
music  of  the  bell  every  time  a  customer  opened  the  door! 
Not  any  for  me,  please  !  I  may  go  on  the  stage,  or  on  the 
street  —  why  should  I  care  where  I  go,  what  I  do,  or  how  I 
end  —  after  this  —  so  that  I  enjoy  the  pride  of  life  in  my 
prime  ?"  she  demanded,  looking  at  the  plain,  good  man  be 
fore  her  with  a  cruel,  sarcastic  sneer. 

He  held  out  his  arm  to  her,  with  a  prayer  in  every  look 
and  gesture.  He  even  ventured  to  lay  his  hand  on  her  in 
tender  compassion,  but  she  broke  away  from  him  and  re 
sumed  her  wild  walk. 

Then  he  sank  into  an  armchair  beside  him  —  he  could  fol 
low  her  no  further  —  and  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hands. 

His  wife  Julia  came  to  his  side. 

She  has  longed  to  go  to  him  while  he  was  following  and 
pleading  with  his  daughter,  and  getting  nothing  from  her 
but  insult  for  love.  She  had  longed  to  lead  him  away  from 
the  ungracious  and  unseemly  strife  with  evil  and  to  say  to 
him  :  "  Leave  the  thankless  and  reckless  woman  to  herself 
to  recover  her  senses,  if  she  ever  had  any,  and  come  with 
me  and  rest."  But  —  she  was  a  stepmother  only  to  the 


250  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

willful  girl,  and  she  must  not  interfere  between  father  and 
daughter. 

But  now  that  he  sat  alone  in  the  collapse  of  despair  after 
fruitless  effort,  bowed  down,  down  with  sorrow  and  wounded 
affection,  she  came  to  him,  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
laid  her  cheek  lightly  on  his  gray  head  and  murmured 
words  of  comfort. 

"You  have  been  very,  very  patient  with  her,  dear,  and 
you  were  so  right !  She  has  had  a  terrible  blow  to  her 
pride,  such  as  even  the  best  of  women  could  not  bear  with 
patience.  How  then  should  she?" 

"Cruel  words  from  one's  child,  my  dear !  Cruel  words !" 
said  the  suffering  father,  shaking  his  head  without  lifting  it. 

"  She  was  crazed  by  grief  and  shame.  She  did  not  mean 
what  she  said.  She  did  not  even  know  what  she  said — did 
not  know  it  rightly,  I  mean  !  When  she  comes  to  her  senses, 
John,  she  will  be  more  sorry  and  ashamed  of  her  conduct  to 
you  than  she  is  now  of  her  downfall,  and  she  will  be  grate 
ful  for  your  love  and  Christ-like  patience  with  her-  Her 
present  mood  is  hysteria — frenzy!  Give  her  time!" 

"She  threatened  to  go  on  the  stage  or  on  the  street !"  ex 
claimed  John,  uttering  the  last  three  words  with  a  deep 
groan. 

"  She  does  rave  worse  than  any  othei  hysterical  woman  I 
ever  heard,  to  be  sure,  for,  as  a  rule,  they  only  threaten  to 
'go  mad'  or  to  'kilP ;  but  it  is  all  raving !  there's  nothing  in 
it !  You  have  been  very  patient  and  forbearing  with  your 
willful  and  provoking  girl  in  this  time  of  her  suffering  and 
excitement.  Continue  to  be  so,  and  you  will  have  your  re 
ward  in  her  penitence  and  affection.  Believe  it,  dear." 

"  'Blessed  are  the  peacemakers/  "  quoted  John  Legg. 
"Come  and  draw  a  chair  and  sit  by  me,  Julia,  my  dear. 
Your  presence  alone  is  very  calming,  even  when  you  do  not 
speak,  though  your  words  are  always  good  and  comforting 
and  your  voice  sweet  and  pleasant." 

Julia  Legg  seated  herself  beside  her  husband  anJ.  took  his 
hand  in  hers. 

Lamia,  having  exhausted  herself  by  her  fury,  fell  down 
again  upon  the  sofa  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions. 

And  now  in  the  silence  that  ensued  John  Legg  became 
conscious  of  a  growing  disturbance  in  the  drawing-room. 

This  might  have  been  going  on  some  time  unnoticed  by 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  251 

the  three  persons  in  the  library,  who  were  absorbed  in  their 
own  trouble;  but  now  the  disturbance  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hall  was  too  evident  to  be  ignored. 
•     The  sound  of  angry  voices,  hurrying  steps  and  struggling 
forms  reached  their  ears. 

Lamia  started  up  from  her  sofa  and  sat  with  her  head 
bent  forward,  staring  in  the  direction  of  the  noise  and 
listening  intently,  with  a  look  of  demoniacal  satisfaction 
and  expectancy  on  her  face. 

Julia  cowered  and  clung  for  protection  to  the  husband 
whom  she  herself  had  just  been  comforting. 

He  patted  her  head  to  reassure  her,  and  then  said : 

"There,  let  me  go,  dear,  and  see  what  is  the  matter  in 
there,"  gently  Irying  to  release  himself  from  her  clasp. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Julia,  clinging  closer  than  before. 
"  Pray,  don't  leave  us,  John !  Don't  go  into  that  room ! 
Something  dreadful  is  going  on  there." 

At  that  moment  a  piercing  shriek  rang  through  the  air, 
followed  by  a  heavy  fall  that  shook  the  house. 

"I  cannot  stand  this  !  Julia,  I  cannot  stand  it !  T  tell  you 
I  must  run  and  prevent  mischief  if  I  can!"  he  urged 
earnestly,  trying  to  free  himself  from  her  strong  arms,  but 
finding  that  he  could  not  do  so  without  using  force  and 
violence  that  must  hurt  her. 

The  confusion  arose  to  uproar.  A  loud  crash  shivered  on 
the  floor,  and  a  peal  of  fiendish  laughter  resounded  through 
the  building,  and  a  woman's  agonized  cry  went  up  to  heaven 
for  help ! 

Lamia,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  leaning  forward,  listening  in 
tently,  now  broke  into  a  low,  demoniacal  chuckle. 

"Julia!"  exclaimed  John  Legg,  breathing  hard  through 
excitement.  "I  hate  to  hurt  you,  but  I  must  prevent  mur 
der." 

And  he  wrenched  her  arms  from  around  his  neck,  threw 
her  back  in  the  armchair  and  rushed  from  the  library  to  the 
drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  TERRIBLE  SCENE 

WE  must  now  explain  the  cause  of  the  parlor  storm.    It 
came  on  in  this  way: 


252  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

All  the  guests  of  Haymore  Hall — with  the  exception  of 
the  Legg  family  in  the  library — were  still  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room. 

The  Campbell  party,  father,  mother  and  daughter,  still 
occupied  the  obscure  sofa  against  the  rear  wall  of  the  back 
division. 

Judy  and  Will  Walling  were  seated  near,  talking  with 
them. 

Dandy,  Mike  and  Longman  were  standing  on  the  rug  be 
fore  the  fire,  exchanging  confidences  on  the  affairs  of  the 
evening. 

Gentleman  Gen*  reclined,  stupidly  staring,  on  a  divan  in 
the  recess  of  the  front  bay  window,  and  occasionally  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  large  flack,  which,  with  trembling  hands, 
he  uncorked  and  put  to  his  lips. 

Ran  walked  about  from  one  group  of  friends  to  another, 
trying  to  seem  at  ease,  but  too  surely  in  a  state  of  intense 
anxiety. 

Presently  he  took  heart  of  grace  and  went  up  to  the  group 
on  the  sofa,  touched  the  Rev.  James  Campbell  on  the  shoul 
der  and  said : 

•'Come  with  me,  please,  reverend  sir;  I  wish  to  consult 
you." 

The  rector  arose  and  drew  the  arm  of  his  host  within  his 
own  and  walked  away  with  him.  They  did  not  leave  the 
drawing-room,  but  went  slowly  up  and  down  its  length  for 
the  first  few  minutes  in  silence. 

Ran  did  not  seem  to  know  how  to  open  the  subject  he  had 
on  his  mind.  So  it  was  the  rector,  after  all,  who,  probably 
divining  the  nature  of  his  friend's  difficult}^,  was  "the  first 
to  speak  and  to  speak  to  the  point. 

"The  hour  is  late,  and  something  should  be  done  with 
that —  He  paused,  unwilling  to  use  the  words  that 

arose  to  his  lips,  and  he  indicated  the  inebriate  by  a  move 
ment  of  his  thumb. 

"Yes,"  said  Ran,  "that  is  what  puzzles  me.  It  was  of 
that  I  wished  to  talk  with  you." 

"Go  on  then !  Let  me  have  your  views.  It  is  late,  as  I 
remarked  before,  and  I  should  have  taken  my  wife  and 
daughter  home  an  hour  ago,  but  that  I  did  not  wish  to  leave 
you  until  something  should  be  settled  in  regard  to  this 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  253 

"But  you  will  not  leave  us  to-night?  Rooms  have  already 
been  prepared  for  you !"  exclaimed  Ean. 

"My  dear  young  friend,  I  thank  you  heartily,  for  myself 
and  my  womenkind,  but  we  must  return  to  the  rectory  to 
night.  My  daughter  has  left  her  young  babe  there,"  replied 
the  rector. 

"But  it  is  so  late." 

"But  the  distance  is  so  short." 

"Do  oblige  us  by  staying,,  Mr.  Campbell." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hay,  don't  you  see  it  is  impossible,  much  as 
I  thank  you  ?" 

"Well,  I  am  sorry.    So  will  Judy  be." 

"And  now  about  the  disposition  of  this — Montgomery?" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Randolph  Hay. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

"I  do  not  know,  sir.  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  if  you  please. 
I  might  send  for  a  constable  to  take  him  to  the  lockup 
house,  as  they  call  it  here ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  do  that.  I 
might  send  him  in  a  carriage  to  the  village  tavern,  but  I 
think  he  would  drink  himself  to  death  there;  or  I  might 
give  him  a  bed  here  for  the  present,  and  indeed  this  is  what 
I  would  rather  do." 

"Eh— what?    Keep  the  fellow  here?" 

"For  the  present,  yes." 

"And  in  the  name  of  common  sense — why?" 

"Well,  to  keep  him  out  of  harm's  way." 

"My  good  young  friend,  you  did  well  to  take  counsel  with 
me.  You  would  have  done  well  to  take  counsel  of  any  sane 
man  on  such  a  subject." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  begin  to  suspect  that  you  need  a  trustee  for  your 
estate  and  a  guardian  for  your  person !" 

"I  don't  understand  you!" 

"  Listen,  then  !  That  fellow  deserves  to  go  to  prison.  He 
might  be  sent  to  the  village  inn.  But,  my  friend,  he  must 
not  be  allowed  to  spend  so  much  as  one  night  under  your 
roof.  To  let  him  do  so  would  be  an  act  of  insanity." 

"But  why?" 

"For  more  reasons  than  one.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  the 
fraudulent  claimant  of  your  name  and  estate,  though  his 
claim  will  not  bear  an  instant  of  light,  a  ray  of  truth,  let 
in  upon  it;  yet  your  allowing  him  to  remain  in  the  house 


354  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

to  which  he  came  as  its  pretended  master,  would  seem,  to 
him  at  least,  to  be  giving  some  color  to  his  pretensions.  Do 
you  see?" 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything 
he,  poor  wretch,  may  think  or  say  or  do.  Is  there  any  other 
reason  why  he  should  not  be  sheltered  here?" 

"Yes — not  so  strong  a  reason,  to  be  sure;  but  a  most 
decent  one." 

"Well?" 

"He  is  a  bigamist.  He  came  here  bringing  a  cruelly  de 
ceived,  falsely  married  woman,  who  was  never,  therefore, 
wife  or  bride.  She,  not  'Mrs/  anybody,  but  Miss  Legg,  is 
here  in  your  house  under  the  charge  of  her  parents,  wlio  are 
your  guests.  Therefore  it  would  be  unseemly — to  use  the 
mildest  term — for  him  to  remain  under  the  same  roof.  Do 
you  see  now?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see.  How  oblique  one's  vision  is  at  times, 
however.  Well,  Mr.  Campbell,  you  have  told  me  what  I 
must  not  do  with  him;  will  you  now  tell  me  what  I  may?" 

"Certainly.  If  your  merciful  spirit  shrinks  from  passing 
him  over  into  the  bands  of  the  law,  you  can  have  him  put 
into  a  carriage  and  taken  to  the  village  inn — 'The  Red  Fox,' 
Giles  Scroggins,  host." 

"I  will  do  so,  and  hold  myself  responsible  for  his  expenses 
there,"  said  Randolph  Hay. 

And  then  both  men  looked  toward  the  divan  in  the  front 
bay  window,  on  which  lolled  Gentleman  Gen3,  very  drunk 
and  getting  drunker  every  instant,  for  he  now  had  the  big 
flask  turned  up  to  his  mouth,  with  his  head  thrown  so  far 
back  that  he  was  evidently  draining  the  last  drop  of  its  con 
tents.  When  he  had  done  so,  he  made  a  futile  attempt  to  re 
store  the  empty  flask  to  his  Docket,  but  instead  let  it  fall  to 
the  floor,  while  he  dropped  back  into  his  lolling  position. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Clay  Legg  strode  into  the 
drawing-room,  fresh  from  his  humiliating  interview  with 
his  father,  smarting  under  the  disclosure  of  his  sister's  dis 
honor. 

He  strode  past  all  the  guests  in  his  way,  and  straight  up 
to  the  side  of  his  late  friend  and  patron,  Gentleman  Gen3, 
struck  his  hand  heavily  on  the  drunkard's  shoulder,  shook 
him  roughly  and  said: 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  255 

"Do  you  know,  you  brute!  you  devil!  what  is  before 
you?" 

Gentleman  Geff  opened  his  heavy  red  eyes  and  stared  in 
a  deep  stupor,  through  which  fury  began  to  kindle  slowly, 
like  flame  from  under  a  thick  smoke. 

"Answer  me,  you  beast !"  demanded  Legg,  with  another 
and  rougher  shake  of  the  wretch  under  his  grasp.  "Do  you 
know  what  is  before  you?" 

"No!  nor  care!"  roared  the  madman,  with  'a  perfect 
stream  of  profanity  and  obscenity. 

"Then  listen  to  me !"  said  Legg,  when  at  length  the  tor 
rent  from  Tartarus  was  stayed.  "What  is  before  you  is 
first  a  trial  for  bigamy,  with  fourteen  years  of  penal  servi- 
ture,  with  hard  labor,  bread  and  water,  ball  and  chain,  dark 
cell  and  frequent  flogging  thrown  in !" 

Gentleman  Geff  answered  this  by  a  glare  of  hatred  and 
defiance  and  another  inundation  from  the  Kiver  of  Sip:. 

Legg  waited  until  that  flood  was  exhausted  and  then 
added : 

"Nor  is  that  all !  For  when  your  first  term  of  penal  servi 
tude  shall  be  served  out,  another  indictment  will  await  you 
for  conspiracy,  perjury,  forgery  and  fraud,  by  which  you 
sought  to  gain  possession  of  the  Haymore  estate,  and  an 
other  fourteen  years,  at  least,  of  imprisonment,  hard  labor, 
stripes,  chains  and  the  rest !" 

Again  Gentleman  Geff  opened  his  lips  in  a  way  that  made 
his  mouth  seem  the  opening  of  the  pit  of  fire  and  brimstone 
for  the  blasting  curses  that  issued  from  it. 

And  again  Legg  waited  in  sarcastic  silence  until  the 
smoke  and  flame  had  sunk  down,  and  then  he  added: 

"If  you  should  live  through  your  second  term  you  will 
have  served  twenty-eight  years  and  you  will  be  near  sixty 
years  of  age — a  very  hoary-headed  sinner,  indeed !  And  yet, 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  the  United  States  will  want  you  on 
a  charge  of  highway  robbery  and  attempted  murder,  and 
will  get  you  under  the  international  extradition  treaty. 
And  you  will  pass  the  remainder  of  your  guilty  life  in  an 
American  prison,  where  not  only  are  the  strong  and  re 
bellious  criminals  compelled  to  labor,  but  the  aged,  the 
infirm,  and  the  invalids  are  scourged  and  driven  to  hard 
work,  until  they  drop  dead  (if  all  tales  be  true).  'Do  you 
like  the  picture?'" 


256  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

A  blast  of  fury,  profanity  and  indecency,  more  diabolical 
than  all  that  had  preceded  it,  stormed  from  the  mouth  of 
the  madman,  and  raved  like  a  whirlwind  around  the  ears  of 
the  listener. 

When  this  had  died  of  its  own  frenzy,  Legg  spoke  again 
and  for  the  last  time. 

"Do  you  know,  you  fiend,  who  are  here?  I  will  tell  you ! 
The  witnesses  who  will  convict  you  of  every  crime  known 
to  mankind.  There  on  the  sofa,  at  the  opposite  end  of  this 
room,  a  little  in  the  shadow,  sits  your  wife,  Jennie  Mont 
gomery,  whom  you  married,  deserted  and  afterward  stabbed, 
and  teft  for  dead  in  the  streets  in  New  York.  There  she 
sits  between  her  mother  and  father,  all  three  bent  on  prose 
cuting  you  to  the  full  extent  of  the  law !  Look  attentively 
and  you  will  see  them !  There,  talking  with  Lawyer 
Walling,  is  Randolph  Hay,  your  benefactor,  who  saved  you 
from  starving  and  shared  his  hut  with  you  in  the  mining 
camp  of  Grizzly  Gulch,  and  whom  you  robbed,  tried  to  mur 
der  and  left  for  dead  in  the  Black  Woods  of  California  so 
that  you  might  claim  his  name  and  place  with  impunity ! 
He  will  be  compelled  to  prosecute  you  !  And  across  the 
hall,  in  the  library  with  her  father,  is  the  woman  you  de 
ceived  into  a  false  marriage.  She  will  prosecute  you  with 
all  the  vim,  venom  and  virulence  of  a  proud,  outraged  and 
revengeful  woman.  That  is,  if  she  does  not  prefer  to  exe 
cute  you  with  her  own  hands.'7 

Clay  Legg  should  have  known  the  dangerous  wild  beast 
he  was  goading  to  madness,  yet  he  went  on  with  a  strange 
fatuity. 

Gentleman  Gen6  had  followed  with  his  eyes  the  index  of 
Clay  Legg  to  the  distant  sofa,  on  which  sat  the  wronged 
wife,  Jennie  Montgomery,  between  her  father  and  her 
mother.  He  had  slowly  but  surely  recognized  her,  stared 
at  her  in  stupid  dismay  until  he  was  again  stung  to  fury 
by  the  insulting  words  of  Clay  Legg,  when  he  turned  his 
kindling  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  man  who  was  drawing  such 
a  degrading  picture  of  his  fate.  It  seemed  then  that  it 
only  needed  the  cessation  of  the  sound  of  the  speaker's  voice 
to  break  the  spell  that  held  the  demoniac ;  for  no  sooner  had 
it  ceased  than  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  terrible  roar 
and  hurled  himself  toward  Legg. 

But  the  latter  saw  his  peril  with  the  speed  of  I 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  257 

and  fled  away,  leaving  others  to  brave  the  storm  "he  himself 
had  raised. 

In  an  instant  the  maniac  was  raging  in  the  midst  of  "the 
goodlie  company."  and  all  was  fear,  panic  and  confusion. 

Little  Mike,  unhappily,  was  nearest  to  the  madman  and 
first  to  attempt  to  pacify  him.  But  the  demon  caught  up  a 
heavy  astral  lamp  from  the  table  nearest  to  him  and  shiv 
ered  it  upon  the  head  of  the  willing  peacemaker,  who  fell 
like  a  slaughtered  sheep. 

Judy's  shrieks  of  agony  rang  out  upon  the  air.  and 
brought  the  terrified  servants  to  the  drawing-room  doors. 

The  demoniac  sprang  upon  the  table  and  seized  a  heavy 
chair,  which  he  whirled  around  his  head,  threatening  all 
who  approached. 

Ban  and  Longman  sprang  upon  the  table  and  threw 
themselves  upon  him. 

It  was  at  ttiis  moment  that  John  Legg,  startled  by  the 
screams  of  the  women,  entered  the  drawing-room,  through 
the  side  door  leading  from  the  hall. 

Yes,  it  was  pandemonium  that  met  the  horror-stricken 
eyes  of  the  man.  Can  I  possibly  show  you  the  scene  as  he 
beheld  it? 

As  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  on  his  left,  near  the  bay 
window  in  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  high  on  the  table 
stood  the  athletic  form  of  the  demoniac,  raging  and  foam 
ing,  cursing  and  threatening  in  the  frenzy  of  mania  a  potu, 
swinging  aloft  the  heavy  chair  which  he  whirled  around 
his  head  with  the  swiftness  and  velocity  of  a  windmill.  On 
the  same  table  stood  Samson  Longman  and  Eandolph  Hay, 
struggling  to  master  the  maniac,  who  seemed  possessed  of 
the  strength  of  seven  devils. 

On  the  floor,  near  the  middle  of  the  room,  lay  Michael 
Man,  stunned  by  a  wound  in  his  head,  prostrate  and  insen 
sible.  Near  him  were  scattered  the  fragments  of  the  astral 
lamp  that  had  evidently  been  the  instrument  by  which  his 
skull  had  been  fractured.  Beside  him  sat  Judith  Hay,  with 
his  wounded  head  on  her  lap.  She  was  weeping  and  wail 
ing,  giving  full  vent  to  her  grief  and  horror  after  the  man 
ner  of  her  warm-hearted,  impulsive  race.  Beside  him  on 
the  opposite  side  knelt  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  with  a  bowl 
of  water  and  a  napkin,  washing  the  blood  from  the  cut. 

Away  back  in  the  lower  end  of  the  long  room,  on  a  shady 


258  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

sofa,  sat  Mrs.  Campbell  and  her  daughter,  Jennie  Mont 
gomery,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  with  their  heads  hid 
den  on  each  other's  shoulders,  too  much  shocked,  horror- 
stricken,  terrified  to  help,  to  speak  or  even  to  move.  From 
under  the  same  sofa  peered  the  pallid  face  and  staring  eyes 
of  Dandy  Quin,  who  had  evidently  sought  that  lowly  refuge 
"as  the  safest  place  at  the  crack  of  doom"  for  a  poor  little 
old  man. 

Neither  Clay  Legg  nor  Will  Walling  were  to  be  seen  any 
where. 

AH  this,  which  has  required  some  time  to  describe.,  was 
taken  in  at  one  view  by  John  Legg.  And  for  one  instant 
he  stood  in  doubt  where  first  to  offer  help ;  whether  to  jump 
— but  no ;  honest  John's  jumping  days  were  over — whether 
to  scramble  up  on  the  table  and  help  to  subdue  the  maniac 
possessed  of  a  legion  of  devils,  or  to  kneel  down  by  the  side 
of  the  minister  to  serve  if  he  could  the  wounded  man.  In 
another  moment  the  doubt  was  decided  for  him. 

Ran  succeeded  in  getting  both  his  hands  around  the 
throat  of  the  demoniac,  which  he  held  as  in  the  grip  of 
death,  while  Longman  wrenched  and  twisted  the  heavy, 
murderous  missile  from  his  hands  and  dropped  it  on  the 
floor  and  then  closed  with  him  in  a  conquering  clasp.  But 
it  took  all  his  strength,  as  well  as  all  of  Ran's,  to  hold  the 
infuriate,  now  that  his  arms  were  free. 

Feeling  sure  that  the  maniac  was  conquered,  John  Legg 
turned  his  attention  from  the  scene  of  conquest  on  the 
table  to  the  scene  of  suffering  on  the  carpet. 

"Is  the  young  man  dangerously  wounded?"  he  inquired 
in  a  low  tone  of  Mr.  Campbell. 

"We  hope  not.  We  hope  this  may  be  only  a  scalp  wound. 
But  it  will  be  impossible  to  tell  until  there  is  a  surgical  ex 
amination,"  replied  the  minister. 

"Has  a  doctor  been  sent  for?" 

Yes ;  Mr.  Walling  has  gone  out  to  dispatch  a  servant  for 
Mr.  Hobbs,  the  village  practitioner." 

"Oh,  me  poor  Mike!"  cried  Judy,  breaking  afresh  into 
sobs  and  tears  and  dialect.  "Me  poor,  dear,  darlint  bhoy! 
Sure  he  was  born  to  have  the  head  av  him  broke.  Sure,  it's 
not  the  first  time,  though  it's  the  worst.  But,  afther  all, 
it  is  not  so  bad  broke  as  me  own  dear  Ran's  was,  be  the 
same  token,  and  be  the  hands  av  that  same  murthering  thaif 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  259 

av  the  wurruld!  Oh!  wirra!  wirra!  It  was  not  enough 
that  he  kilt  me  dear  Ran  intirely,  but  now  he  must  kill  me 
poor  Mike !"  wailed  Judy  until  her  words  were  drowned  in 
a  flood  of  tears. 

Mr.  Campbell  gazed  in  astonishment  for  a  moment.  In 
this  wild  Irish  girl,  giving  full  swing  to  her  emotions  and 
her  brogue,  he  could  scarcely  recognize  the  quiet  gentle 
woman  he  had  known  now  for  some  hours  as  Mrs.  Randolph 
Hay.  But  he  quickly  recovered  himself,  and  atoned  for  his 
involuntary  rudeness  by  withdrawing  his  gaze  and  offering 
the  gentlest  words  of  consolation. 

In  the  meantime  the  struggle  on  the  table  was  continued 
in  grim  silence.  The  opponents  saving  all  their  wind  for 
their  strife  until,  as  they  swayed  back  and  forth,  the  equili 
brium  of  the  board  was  overbalanced,  and  table  and  men 
fell  together  to  the  floor  with  a  loud  crash  that  called  forth 
shrieks  from  the  women. 

For  one  moment  the  three  men  rolled  together  in  a  knot 
on  the  carpet,  and  the  next  Gentleman  Geff  lay  flat  on  his 
back,  with  Longman's  knees  on  his  chest  and  hands  around 
his  throat. 

"Ran  !"  exclaimed  the  hunter,  "take  my  handkerchief  out 
of  my  coat  pocket  and  tie  the  feet  of  this  wild  beast !" 

Ran  immediately  tried  to  obey.  He  drew  the  large  red 
bandanna  from  Longman's  pocket,  found  it  strong  enough 
for  its  purpose,  and  went  around  and  took  hold  of  the  feet 
of  the  prostrate  madman,  but  he  immediately  received  a 
shower  of  kicks  upon  his  chest  that  knocked  him  breathless. 

Seeing  that,  Longman  raised  his  voice  again. 

"Mr.  Legg,  come  here!  We  haven't  got  a  man  to  deal 
with,  but  a  devil,  and  a  rum-maddened  devil  at  that!" 

Legg  immediately  rushed  to  the  rescue. 

"Have  you  got  a  scarf  or  a  handkerchief  ?  A  good  strong 
one.  All  right !  Tie  this  brute's  fore  paws  together  while 
I  hold  him  down.  Samson,  my  namesake,  what  amazing 
strength  rum  and  madness  gives  a  brute  !"  panted  Longman, 
when  he  had  finished  his  labor  and  arose  to  his  feet. 

The  conquered  demoniac  lay  bound  and  gagged  on  the 
floor,  his  murderous  limbs  helpless,  his  blasphemous  tongue 
speechless.  Yet  still  he  writhed,  tossed  and  floundered  like 
some  huge,  stranded  sea  monster. 

-The  distressed  group  gathered  around  Michael  Man  were 


260  I  OR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

obliged  to  wait  in  quietness  for  the  arrival  of  the  doctor, 
for  they  dared  not  even  move  the  wounded  man  lest  they 
should  do  him  a  fatal  injury. 

Dr.  Hobbs  came  at  last,  and  being  a  country  practitioner, 
he  brought  his  medicine  chest  as  well  as  his  surgical  case 
with  him. 

He  was  a  tall,  lank,  red-haired  young  Yorkshi reman, 
fresh  from  the  London  colleges,  who  had  lately  succeeded  to 
the  practice  of  his  father,  an  aged,  retired  physician  of  the 
place. 

He  found  two  patients  to  be  treated,  one  in  as  dire  need 
as  the  other. 

But  after  hearing  a  brief  account  of  the  occurrence  from 
Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  he  gave  his  first  services  to  the  youth, 
Michael  Man. 

The  bleeding  wound  in  his  head  was  of  itself  bringing 
back  the  consciousness  of  the  wounded  lad. 

Dr.  Hobbs  knelt  by  his  side  and  made  a  careful  examina 
tion  of  his  injuries,  and  then  he  told  the  anxious  friends 
that  they  were  not  dangerous,  only  a  deep  scalp  wound  and 
a  very  slight  fracture  of  the  skull. 

He  washed  and  dressed  the  wound  there  on  the  spot,  and 
then  directed  that  the  youth  should  be  taken  to  his  room, 
undressed  and  put  to  bed. 

A  narrow  mattress  was  brought  by  two  menservants,  who 
laid  it  on  the  carpet,  lifted  the  wounded  youth  tenderly,  laid 
him  on  it  and  so  bore  him  out  of  the  drawing-room  and  up 
the  grand  staircase  to  his  chamber  on  the  third  floor,  fol 
lowed  by  Dr.  Hobbs  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay. 

By  the  time  Michael  Man  was  carefully  undressed  and 
comfortably  settled  in  bed  he  recovered  his  faculties  suffi 
ciently  to  recognize  the  situation  and  speak  to  those  around 
him. 

"Don't  ye  be  frighted,  Judy,  darlint,"  he  murmured 
feebly  to  his  pallid,  distressed  sister,  who  was  bending  anx 
iously  over  him. 

"Sure,  and  I'm  not,  Mike,  dear.  Yourself  will  be  all 
right  soon,"  she  replied,  putting  much  constraint  upon  her 
self. 

"Troth,  and  I'm  all  right  now.  So  the  redskins  did  come 
and  attack  the  fort,  afther  all.  But  the  colonel  was  aquil 
to  the  blackguards,"  he  added. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  261 

And  then  the  doctor  perceived  that  he  was  becoming  de 
lirious,  and  he  administered  a  sedative.  When  the  patient 
had  grown  quiet  again  the  doctor  left  him,  with  his  sister 
Judy  sitting  by  his  bed,  and  went  downstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  attend  to  the  other  case  waiting  for  his  treatment. 

There  he  found  the  demoniac  still  lying  on  the  floor, 
bound  hand  and  foot.  Longman,  Dandy  and  Mr.  Campbell 
were  standing  around  him.  They  had  taken  the  gag  from 
his  mouth,  but  he  was  breathing  heavily.  He  had  suffered 
the  usual  reaction  in  mania  apotu,  from  violent  frenzy  to 
deep  coma. 

The  men  around  him  made  way  for  the  young  doctor, 
who  knelt  down  beside  him,  looked  into  his  face,  felt  his 
pulse  and  his  heart,  and  even  lifted  the  heavy,  half -closed 
lids  of  his  swollen  eyes.  Then  he  rose  and  said : 

"I  think  you  may  unbind  him  with  safety  now;  he  will 
not  be  in  a  condition  to  assault  any  one  or  do  any  harm  for 
many  days  to  come,  if  he  ever  should." 

At  this  moment  Ran  re-entered  the  drawing-room  and  re 
ported  Mike  as  sleeping  quietly. 

Then,  in  the  kindness  of  his  hart  toward  his  fallen  foe, 
he  stooped  and  examined  the  condition  of  Gentleman  Gen3, 
whom  Longman  had  just  unbound  and  straightened  out, 
and  who  was  now  lying  relaxed  and  limp  on  the  carpet. 

"Now,  Mr.  Campbell,"  said  Ran,  standing  up,  "you  see 
that  we  have  no  alternative  than  to  put  this  poor  wretch  to 
bed  in  the  house  here." 

"Not  so,"  said  the  rector.  Then  turning  to  the  doctor, 
he  inquired:  "Will  it  be  safe  to  remove  this  man  immedi 
ately  to  my  house — to  the  rectory,  that  is?  The  distance 
is  short,  you  know." 

"It  will  be  perfectly  safe,  sir,"  replied  the  physician. 

"Then,  Mr.  Hay,  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you  for  the 
use  of  a  spring  wagon  or  cart  and  a  mattress  with  pillows 
and  proper  covering  to  convey  this  man  to  the  rectory," 
said  Mr.  Campbell,  turning  to  his  host. 

"But,  my  dear  sir,  do  you  think  of  what  you.  are  about 
to  do?"  demanded  Ran. 

"Yes;  my  duty." 

"But  your  daughter?" 

"She  need  never  see  or  speak  to  him  or  be  troubled  by 
him.  Jennie  is  a  very  sensible,  practical  young  woman; 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

always  was  so,  like  her  dear  mother.  And  her  misfortunes 
— the  result  of  her- one  act  of  imprudence — have  made  her 
even  more  so.  Jennie  will  be  no  hindrance." 

"But  why  should  you  take  so  much  trouble,  make  such 
a  sacrifice,  assume  such  a  responsibility  as  to  carry  this 
stupefied  madman  to  your  quiet  house?" 

"Because,  as  I  said  before,  it  is  my  duty.  I  am  a  minister 
of  the  merciful  Gospel,  however  much  below  that  sacred 
calling,  and  must  set  an  example  of  charity — practice  some 
little  of  what  I  preach.  The  man  is  my  daughter's  husband, 
however  unworthy  of  her ;  my  own  son-in-law,  however  dis 
creditable  to  me ;  and  I  must  do  my  duty  by  him,  however 
disagreeable  to  us  all.  My  dear  wife  and  daughter  will  give 
no  trouble.  There  will  be  no  scenes,  no  hysterics.  They 
are  good,  true,  strong  women,  and  will  sustain  me  in  my 
action.  But  they  need  not  go  near  the  man.  Longman,  his 
mother  and  myself  can  take  care  of  him.  And  now,  my 
•friend,  will  you  order  the  conveyance?" 

With  a  sigh  and  a  gesture  of  deprecation,  Ran  went  out 
to  give  the  necessary  directions. 

There  had  been  some  delay  caused  by  this  discussion ;  but 
it  did  not  matter  to  the  unworthy  subject  of  it ;  he  was  lying 
on  the  carpet  in  a  dead  stupor,  and  for  himself  was  as  well 
there  as  anywhere  else :  so  there  was  no  hurry. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  a  light  spring  cart,  such  as  is 
used  by  expressmen,  was  brought  around  from  the  stables. 
It  was  drawn  by  two  horses  and  furnished  with  comfortable 
bedding,  and  to  this  receptacle  Gentleman  Geff  was  •con 
veyed  in  the  arms  of  four  men. 

The  rector  and  the  doctor  rode  on  the  seat  with  the  driver, 
and  they  took  the  road  to  the  rectory. 

Mrs.  Campbell  and  her  daughter,"  declining  all  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hay's  pressing  invitations,  set  out  in  one  of  the  Hall 
carriages  for  their  home.  Longman  rode  on  the  box  with 
the  coachman. 

Mr.  Walling,  old  Dandy  and  the  Legg  family  were  the 
only  remaining  guests  at  the  Hall,  and  these  declined  to  re 
tire  to  bed. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  263 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

CLEARING  SKIES 

IT  was  of  no  use  to  go  to  bed.    The  sun  was  rising. 

Judy,  leaving  Mike  fast  asleep,  came  downstairs,  sum 
moned  the  housekeeper  and  gave  directions  for  an  early  and 
ample  breakfast. 

Then  she  went  into  the  library  to  look  after  the  Leggs. 

She  found  Lamia  lying  on  the  sofa  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  cushions.  She  lay  perfectly  still,  so  that  she  might 
be  asleep,  ashamed  or  only  sulky. 

Mrs.  Legg  lay  back  in  her  easy-chair,  fast  asleep. 

John  Legg  sat  in  the  great  leathern  armchair,  with  his 
hands  clasped  upon  his  knees  and  his  chin  bent  upon  his 
chest  •  he  was  awake,  as  deep  sighs  showed  him  to  be. 

Clay  Legg  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Judy  was  so  calm  and  reassured  now  that,  without  once 
falling  into  dialect,  she  addressed  herself  to  the  old  man. 

"Mr.  Legg,  there  have  been  bedrooms  at  the  disposal  of 
yourself  and  family  all  last  night.  I  hope  the  servant, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  do  so,  has  not  failed  to  let  you  know 
this  or  to  offer  to  show  you  to  your  apartments?" 

"No,  madam,  thank  you.  No  one  has  failed  to  execute 
your  hospitable  orders ;  but  who  could  go  to  bed  in  such  a 
night  as  has  been  passed?  No,  madam ;  just  as  soon  as  my 
wife  and  daughter  are  a  little  rested  we  shall  bid  you  good- 
by  and  take  our  leave  of  your  hospitable  home." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  such  is  your  resolution ;  but  as  soon  as 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Legg  shall  awaken  I  hope  you  will  ring  a 
bell  and  a  servant  shall  show  you  to  your  rooms,  where,  at 
least,  you  may  have  the  refreshment  of  the  toilet  service  be 
fore  breakfast,''  concluded  Judy,  pleased  with  her  victory- 
over  the  brogue. 

"You  are  very  kind,  madam,  and  we  will  avail  ourselves 
of  your  offer,"  said  John  Legg,  with  a  bow. 

Judy  smiled  and  left  the  library. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  behind  her  than  Lamia 
reared  her  head  like  a  serpent  from  the  sofa  and  said : 

"Well,  then,  ring  the  bell  now.  I  am  awake,  at  any 
rate,  and  I  should  like  a  bath  and  then  breakfast  to  my 


264  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

room.  I  shall  not  go  down  to  the  breakfast  table  to  face 
a  sneering  pack  of  hypocrites." 

John  Legg  sighed  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  commotion  waked  up  Mrs.  Legg,  who  yawned,  rubbed 
her  eyes  and  looked  about  her. 

"Where  are  we?  What  place  is  this?  How  came  we 
here?"  she  muttered. 

And  then  she  suddenly  recollected  the  situation  and  cir 
cumstances  and  added : 

"It's  well  I'm  strong.  John  Legg.,  how  have  you  stood 
it?" 

"As  well  as  man  could,  Julia,  I  hope.  But  here  is  a 
young  woman  come  to  show  us  to  our  rooms,  where  we  can 
wash  our  faces  before  breakfast,"  he  added,  as  a  housemaid 
appeared  at  the  door. 

The  three  arose  and  prepared  to  follow  the  girl,  who  led 
them  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs  to  one  of  the  best  suites  of 
rooms  in  the  house. 

When  John  Legg  and  Julia  Legg  had  made  their  simple 
and  hasty  toilet,  they  went  downstairs  and  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  they  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eandolph  Hay,  Mr. 
Will  Walling  and  Dandy  Quin  awaiting  them. 

They  greeted  the  party,  and  then  John  Legg  apologized 
for  the  absence  of  his  daughter  as  best  he  could. 

Judy  excused  herself  for  a  moment  and  went  out  im 
mediately  to  speak  to  the  housekeeper  and  order  an  excellent 
breakfast  sent  up  to  Miss  Legg  in  her  room. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  guests  and  conducted  them  to 
the  breakfast  parlor,  where  the  morning  meal  was  already 
laid. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Legg  took  leave,  and  with 
old  Dandy,  who  wept  at  parting  with  his  friends,  and  with 
their  daughter,  closely  veiled  and  silent,  left  Haymore  Hall 
in  a  carriage  proffered  by  Ran  and  drove  to  Chuxton,  where 
they  took  the  train  for  London,  en  route  for  Medge. 

Clay  Legg  had  not  been  seen  since  he  had  fled  from  before 
the  face  of  the  frenzied  Gentleman  Geff.  He  was  afterward 
heard  of  in  Wales,  as  a  hanger-on  to  his  father-in-law,  under 
whose  protection  his  wife  and  children  had  lived  for  some 
time  past. 

Michael  Man's  good  constitution,  excellent  health  and 
temperate  habits  were  all  so  much  in  his  favor  that  in  a 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  265 

few  days  he  began  to  get  well,  and  before  the  week  was  out 
he  came  downstairs  and  joined  the  family  at  their  meals. 

The  rector  came  over  every  day  to  inquire  after  Mike  and 
to  bring  reports  of  Gentleman  Geff,  who  was  at  death's  door 
with  brain  fever  and  not  expected  to  recover.  Longman, 
the  colossus,  was  established  in  the  sick  room  as  his  con 
stant  attendant.  Elspeth  remained  at  the  rectory  for  the 
present.  She  would  not  leave  the  family  under  present  cir 
cumstances.  Meanwhile  Eandolph  Hay  had  given  orders  to 
his  bailiff,  Prowt,  to  have  the  gamekeeper's  cottage  put  in 
complete  repair  and  refurnished  for  the  Longmans. 

Christmas  came,  and  the  young  couple  at  the  Hall  sent 
invitations  to  their  few  intimate  friends  to  come  and  spend 
the  sacred  festival  with  them.  They  were  loyal  to  the  hum 
blest  among  these.  They  really  invited  not  only  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Campbell  and  Mrs.  Montgomery  and  Dr.  Hobbs,  but 
old  Dandy  from  Medge  and  Longman  and  Elspeth  from  the 
rectory.  Will  Walling  and  Michael  Man  were  still  staying 
in  the  house. 

The  young  doctor,  the  rector  and  his  wife  and  daughter 
accepted  the  invitation,  but  Elspeth  and  Longman  declined 
it  on  the  ground  that  she  would  have  to  stay  at  home  to 
mind  the  baby  and  he  to  attend  to  the  sick  man ;  but  these 
were  not  the  only  reasons ;  they  both  felt  that  their  presence, 
as  even  Christmas  guests  at  the  Hall,  would  be  a  social  sole 
cism;  for  as  Elspeth  said  to  her  son: 

"These  generous  young  people  from  the  woods  of  a  for 
eign  country  don't  know  what  they  are  a-doing  of  when 
they  invite  you  and  me  to  dinner,  Samson !  It  might  do 
well  enough  in  the  mines  of  the  backwoods.  But  here! 
Why,  bless  'em,  if  they  go  on  in  this  way  not  a  single  soul 
among  the  country  families  will  have  a  thing  to  do  with 
'em,  if  they  are  the  lord  and  lady  of  the  manor !  But  they'll 
find  out  better.'' 

Longman  fully  agreed  with  his  mother,  and  so  he  wrote 
his  excuses  for  both. 

Old  Dandy  Quin  also  wrote  from  Medge  and  begged  to 
be  excused  on  two  pleas :  the  first  that  he  was  not  able  to 
make  the  long  journey  from  one  end  of  England  to  the 
other  twice  in  ten  days ;  and  the  second  was  that  he  wanted 
to  eat  his  Christmas  dinner  with  his  new-found  relatives. 
He  added  the  information  that  he  did  not  mean  to  carry  out 


266  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

his  first  intention  of  buying  an  annuity  with  his  savings, 
but  that  he  should  go  into  partnership  with  his  nephew,  and 
that  in  the  spring  they  should  move  into  a  larger  house  and 
increase  their  business. 

He  concluded  with  a  piece  of  news  that  made  Ran,  Judy 
and  Mike  break  into  one  of  their  shouting  Grizzly  Gulch 
laughs. 

He  wrote  that  poor  Miss  Lyddy  Legg — and  just  think  of 
the  queenly  and  beautiful  Lamia  Leegh  being  called  "poor 
Miss  Lyddy  Legg !" — was  very  brokenhearted,  though  she 
need  not  be,  for  it  was  not  her  fault  that  she  had  been 
taken  in  by  a  false  marriage;  and  that  everybody  was  as 
kind  to  her  as  kind  could  be,  and  that  he  himself — Dandy 
Quin — had  so  much  respect  and  sympathy  for  her  that  he 
offered  to  marry  her  out  of  hand  and  make  an  lionest  woman 
of  her  and  leave  her  all  his  property  at  his  death !  but  that 
the  poor,  misguided  and  demented  young  woman,  who  did 
not  know  what  was  for  her  own  good,  had  refused  him  with 
scorn  and  insolence.  There  ! 

Think  of  the  \ain  and  haughty  Lamia  Leegh  receiving  an 
offer  of  marriage  from  Dandy  Quin ! 

Notwithstanding,  or  perhaps  because  of  these  "regrets," 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  enjoyed  their  Christmas  with 
the  few  friends  who  gathered  around  them. 

In  the  morning  they  walked  to  the  village  church  in  com 
pany  with  Will  Walling  end  Mike,  They  heard  a  good 
Christmas  sermon  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell  and  listened 
to  some  really  fine  mu&ic  from  the  organ  and  grand  anthems 
from  the  choristers. 

After  the  service  they  shook  hands  with  the  rector  and 
his  wife  and  daughter  and  with  Elspeth. 

Longman  was  at  the  rectory  keeping  guard  over  the  dying 
man. 

That  evening  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay  entertained  at 
dinner  the  Rev.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell,  Mrs.  Montgomery, 
Dr.  Hobbs,  Mr.  Will  Walling  and  Mr.  Michael  Man.  And 
the  festival  passed  off  pleasantly,  nor  did  Judy,  nor  even 
Mike,  once  fall  into  dialect. 

When  the  Christmas  holidays  were  over,  Mr.  Will  Wall 
ing,  having  seen  his  friend  and  client,  Mr.  Randolph  Hay, 
in  quiet  and  undisputed  possession  of  Haymore,  prepared 
to  take  leave  of  the  Hall  and  return  to  New  York. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  267 

A  few  days  before  his  expected  departure  he  called  Ban 
and  said : 

"Well,,  what  are  your  plans?" 

"We  shall  not  leave  Haymore  until  the  spring,"  replied 
Hay. 

"Well,  give  me  half  an  hour  in  the  library  alone  with 
you.  I  have  something  to  talk  about." 

Ran  followed  his  guest  to  the  room  of  books  and  gave 
him  a  chair  and  took  another. 

Then,  however,  instead  of  seating  himself,  Mr.  Will  Wall 
ing  went  to  one  of.  the  book  shelves  and  took  down  a  large, 
heavy  volume  bound  in  red  cloth  and  gold. 

"This,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  it  on  the  table  and  turned  over 
the  leaves,  "is  the  last  year's  edition  of  'Burke's  Landed 
Gentry  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland/  " 

"Well?"  carelessly  inquired  Ran. 

"'And  this,"  continued  the  lawyer,  as  he  paused  at  an 
open  page,  "is  the  genealogy  of  the  Hays,  of  Haymore." 

"Well?"  again  inquired  Ran. 

"I  want  you  to  look  at  it  with  me.  I  don't  wish  to  bore 
you  to  go  over  the  whole  history,  with  its  marriages,  births 
and  deaths,  but  only  to  notice  this  fact  that  runs  through 
the  whole,  from  your  first  known  ancestor,  Arthur  Hei,  who 
married  Edda,  a  daughter  of  Seebold,  Earl  of  Northumber 
land,  down  to  your  grandfather,  the  late  squire,  who  mar 
ried  Gentil,  daughter  of  Pharoah  Cooper,  of  Esling.  Moor, 
Yorkshire." 

"She  was  a  gypsy,  and  the  child  of  a  gypsy,"  said  Ran. 

"Yes;  still  she  is  set  down  here  as  the  daughter  of  a  cer 
tain  somebody.  All  your  'forebyes'  have  married  the  daugh 
ters  of  certain  somebodies,  from  dukes  down  to  gypsies." 

"Well,  but  what  does  all  this  talk  tend  to?"  demanded 
Ran. 

"To  this :  It  is  too  late  for  your  name  as  Squire  of  Hay- 
more  to  appear  in  this  year's  edition  of  the  'Landed 
Gentry' ;  the  volume  is  probably  already  issued.  But  before 
long  the  Herald  College  will  be  getting  up  next  year's  edi 
tion,  and  you  will  receive  letters  or  messengers  inquiring  for 
authentic  statistics  concerning  your  succession,  marriage 
and  so  on." 

"Well,  they  can  have  them,"  said  Ran  indifferently. 


268  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Yes,  but  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  some  awkwardness  for 
you  on  one  point. 

"Which  point?" 

"That  of  your  marriage. " 

"How  should  that  be?" 

"Why,  in  this  way — listen.  The  items  of  entry  in  your 
case  will  be  something  like  this : 

"  'Hay,  Kandolph;  born  July  15,  184-—;  succeeded  his 
grandfather  as  tenth  squire,  March  1,  186 — /  (for  you  know 
that  your  succession  will  date  from  the  day  of  his  death)  ; 
'married  December  2,   186 — ,  Judith,  daughter  of  - 
Whom?     There's  where  the  awkwardness  would  come  in." 

"I  would  say  simply — Judith  Man,"  replied  Kan  Hay. 

"Very  well — Judith  Man,  daughter  of — whom?  The 
Herald's  College  are  very  precise  in  these  matters.  You 
will  have  to  find  a  father  for  her." 

"Mr.  Walling  !  If  you  were  not  my  friend  and  my  guest, 
I  should  be  very  angry  with  you.  My  sweet  wife  is  a  child 
of  the  Heavenly  Father !  but  for  an  earthly  parent  of  either 
sex  I  do  not  know  where  to  look." 

"Look  here  then,  Hay,  to  me.  1  didn't  mention  the  diffi 
culty  without  having  a  remedy  for  it.  I  am  a  childless 
widower,  as  3^011  know.  And  though  it  would  be  straining 
a  point  of  probability  to  represent  a  man  of  thirty-seven 
as  the  lawful  father  of  a  woman  of  nineteen,  still  I  would 
like  to  adopt  your  wife  as  my  daughter,  that  she  may  be 
entered  in  the  Eed  Book  as  Judith,  daughter  of  William 
Walling,  Esq.,  attorney-at-law,  New  York  City.  Come, 
Hay,  my  friend,  you  know  I  mean  the  best  by  you  and  by 
her.  Now  what  do  you  say  to  accepting  me  as  your  father- 
in-law  ?"  inquired  Will  Walling,  with  a  laugh. 

Eandolph  Hay  paused  before  he  replied.  He  was  more 
pained  than  pleased.  Yet  he  appreciated  the  lawyer's  good 
intentions,  and  was  grateful  for  them. 

At  length  he  answered : 

"I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  Mr.  Walling,  for  your  in 
tended  kindness;  and  I  feel  grieved  that  I  cannot  accept 
your  gracious  proposal,  since  not  to  do  so  must  seem  so  very 
ungracious  as  well  as  ungrateful  to  a  friend  whom  I  love 
and  esteem  as  much  as  I  do  you.  And  yet  I  cannot  accept 
it." 

"But  why  not?"  inquired  the  lawyer. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  269 

"I — do  not  know.  I  cannotxtell.  I  have  a  feeling  against 
it  which  I  am  unable  to  define  or  analyze." 

"But  I  am  not.  I  know  the  cause  of  your  reluctance.  It 
is  because  it  would  not  be  strictly  true.  That  is  it.  You 
need  not  answer,  Kan,  my  boy.  But  you  must  allow  me  to 
tell  you  that  you  are  a  little  too  scruplous  for  a  practical 
world,  though  I  do  not  like  you  the  less  on  that  account," 
said  Will  Walling,  with  his  usual  little  laugh. 

"And  I  hope  my  scruples,  as  you  call  them,  will  not  affect 
our  friendship?'' 

"I  have  just  told  you  that  they  will  not.  There,  let  the 
matter  drop !"  concluded  the  lawyer. 

Judy  never  heard  of  the  offer  Mr.  Will  Walling  had  made 
to  adopt  her  as  his  daughter  for  the  sake  of  giving  her  a 
good  antenuptial  position,  nor  did  she  ever  guess  that  there 
would  be  any*  awkwardness  in  the  record  of  her  marriage 
in  the  Hay,  of  Haymore,  item  of  "The  Landed  Gentry  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland."  She  was  not  troubled  on  that 
subject. 

All  the  affairs  of  the  Hays  were  so  satisfactorily  settled 
now  that  the  young  couple  were  only  waiting  for  the  de 
parture  of  Will  Walling  to  leave  Haymore  for  London, 
where  they  might  live  in  retirement  in  that  great  city  until 
they  should  have  fitted  themselves  to  mingle  with  the  more 
critical  of  their  Yorkshire  neighbors. 

Early  in  .the  new  year  pleasant  letters  came  from  Amer 
ica.  They  were  from  Cleve  and  Palma  Stuart,  and  brought 
news  of  the  change  of  fortune  that  would  take  them  to  the 
mountain  farm  of  West  Virginia. 

Ran  and  Judy  were  pleased,  yet  puzzled. 

"I  should  have  thought,  if  they  left  New  York,  they 
would  have  gone  to  that  fine  plantation  in  Mississippi,"  said 
Judy. 

"So  should  I,  and  not  to  what  must  be  a  poor  farm  on 
the  mountain,"  added  Ran.  And  then  turning  to  Walling, 
he  added: 

"You  see  you  will  have  to  take  the  documents,  putting 
Palma  in  possession  of  the  property  I  have  made  over  to 
her,  all  the  way  to  West  Virginia." 

"I  will  do  that  with  pleasure.  I  have  never  yet  seen 
the  Alleghany  Mountains,"  replied  Will  Walling,  who  was 
always  ready  to  travel  over  any  new  ground. 


270  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

It  was  nearly  the  first  of  February  that  Will  Walling  at 
length  reluctantly  made  up  his  mind  to  take  leave  of  his 
friends  at  Haymore. 

In  bidding  them  farewell  he  said: 

"I  cannot  help  regretting  that  you  would  not  accept  me 
for  your  father-in-law,  Hay." 

Ran  only  laughed  in  reply. 

"What  did  he  mean  by  asking  you  to  be  his  father-in- 
law?"  inquired  Judy,  after  the  dogcart  that  was  taking  Will 
Walling  to  the  station  had  rolled  away  from  the  door. 

"Oh,  only  his  nonsense.  You  know,  of  course,  that,  as  I 
have  no  mother  nor  he  any  daughter,  he  could  never  have 
been  my  father-in-law,"  replied  Ran. 

So  Judy  never  suspected  how  it  was. 

But  before  many  months  Judy  and  Mike  were  c1  aimed  by 
a  father  with  a  pedigree  which  the  most  heathenish  wor 
shiper  of  rank  might  have  been  proud  to  acknowledge. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HOPE   AND  LIFE 

"POLEY,  dear  darling,  will  you  go  with  Cleve  and  me  to 
West  Virginia  to  live?"  exclaimed  Palma,  running  into  the 
cabinet  kitchen  of  her  flat,  where  good  Mrs.  Pole  was  busy 
over  the  fire,  baking  those  very  muffins  in  which  she  so  ex 
celled. 

Cleve  had  gone  out  to  change  the  bonanza  check  to  pay 
the  rent  and  to  give  up  the  flat. 

Poley  paused,  with  a  spoonful  of  batter  held  in  her  hand, 
halfway  between  the  bowl  on  the  table  and  the  muffin  rings 
in  the  pan  on  the  range. 

"What  is  that  you  said,  my  dear?" 

Palma  repeated  her  question. 

"Will  I  go  with  you  to  Vest  Wirginny?  That's  the  furrin 
nation  we  was  to  war  with,  ain't  it?"  inquired  Mrs.  Pole, 
going  on  to  fill  her  muffin  rings. 

"Don't  mention  the  war,  Poley.  I  cannot  bear  to  talk 
of  it." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  271 

"Well,  I  won't.  But  that  Vest  Wirginny — where  is  it? 
In  New  Orleenes?"  inquired  Mrs.  Pole,  whose  ideas  of 
geography  were  so  vague  that  she  once  asked  Palma  if 
Africa  was  in  ihe  United  States.  And  Palma,  to  spare  the 
good  woman's  self-esteem,  answered  that  Africans,  or  their 
descendants,  had  been  in  America  for  a  couple  of  centuries. 
Whereupon  Mrs.  Pole  had  added  that,  of  course,  she  knew 
that  America  was  in  the  United  States.  Palma  had  not  set 
her  right,  but  ruminated  in  her  own  mind  on  the  fact  of  the 
future  when  our  national  New  Jerusalem  would  not  make  a 
part  of  the  Western  continet,  but  the  Western  continent 
would  be  only  a  part  of  the  grand  republic  of  the  planet 
Earth.  But  this  is  a  digression.  Now  to  return. 

"West  Virginia  is  much  nearer  than  New  Orleans/'  re 
plied  Palma. 

Mrs.  Pole  filled  the  last  of  her  muffin  rings  and  set  the 
pan  containing  them  on  the  range  before  she  spoke  again. 

"And  you  and  Mr.  Stuart  be  going  there  to  live,  ma'am,, 
you  say?" 

"Indeed,  yes — and  very  soon,  too." 

Mrs.  Pole  put  the  bowl  of  batter  in  the  cupboard,  covered 
it  over  with  a  clean  napkin  and  sat  down,  "to  save  her 
back,"  while  her  muffins  were  baking. 

"For  good?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  indeed,  for  good  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  I  do 
hope  and  believe.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Pole  jumped  up  and  ran  into  her  little  bedroom  ad 
joining  the  kitchen,  and  brought  out  a  small,  low-backed 
rocker,  saying  to  her  little  lady: 

"There!  Sit  ye  down  while  you  talk.  You  have  often 
enough  told  me  to  'spare  my  back'  whenever  I  could  law 
fully  do  so.  And  now  I  tell  you  to  spare  your  own." 

Palma  laughed  and  dropped  into  her  chair,  and  when 
Mrs.  Pole  had  looked  at  her  muffins  and  seen  that  they  were 
doing  well,  and  taken  her  own  seat  on  a  cane  chair,  Palma 
began : 

"I  will  tell  it  to  you  as  Cleve  told  it  to  me,  for  it  is  like 
a  story,  Poley.  Here  goes! 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  old  man — a  very  rich 
old  man — who  lived  in  an  old  stone  house  at  the  foot  of  a 
mountain,  called  Wolfscliff,  and  the  woods  that  clothed  the 
side  of  the  mountain  were  called  Wolfswalk,  because,  when 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

the  land  was  surveyed  and  the  first  house  was  built  there 
was  neither  sleep  by  night  nor  safety  by  day,  for  the  wolves. 
They  carried  off  hens  and  geese  and  sheep  and  calves,  and — 
horror  to  relate ! — even  the  little  negro  babies.  This  was 
how  the  place  received  its  name.  The  wolves  were  worse 
than  the  Indians.  They  could  neither  be  fought  off  nor 
bought  off,  but  had  gradually  to  die  off,  like  the  Indians. 

"So  the  name  came  down  the  generations  to  the  time  of 
Jeremiah  Cleve,  the  old  man  with  whom  my  story  com 
menced,  and  who  lived  in  an  old  stone  farmhouse  in  the 
woods  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain — a  house  many  times 
larger  than  the  log  cabin  of  his  first  American  ancestor. 

"This  Jeremiah  had  married  an  heiress  in  his  own  neigh 
borhood,  and  so  had  doubled  his  fortune. 

"They  had  three  sons. 

"John,  the  eldest,  was,  according  to  the  law  of  primo 
geniture  then  prevailing  in  Virginia,  heir  to  the  landed  es 
tate  of  his  father.  This  John,  when  he  was  but  twenty  years 
of  age,  became  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  the  man  who  owned  the  nearest  plantation  to 
Wolfswalk.  It  was  a  long  engagement,  on  account  of  the 
young  fiancee's  extreme  youth;  but  just  when  they  were 
going  to  be  married,  when  he  was  twenty-five  and  she  was 
eighteen,  she  caught  a  severe  cold  while  out  sleighing  with 
him,  and  died  within  a  week  of  inflammation  of  the  lungs. 
She  was  buried  in  her  bridal  dress,  on  her  wedding  day.  It 
is  said  that  on  her  deathbed  he  solemnly  vowed  himself  to 
her,  lover  and  husband,  for  time  and  eternity.  That  was 
seventy  years  ago,  and  he  has  kept  his  faith.  He  is  now  a 
lonely  old  man  of  ninety-five,  the  solitary  master  of  Wolfs- 
cliff,  waiting  for  the  Lord  to  call  him  to  join  his  bride  in 
heaven. 

"The  younger  sons,  Charles  and  James,  were,  by  the 
terms  of  the  marriage  settlements  of  their  parents,  co-heirs 
of  their  mother's  estate ;  and  if  there  had  been  ten,  they 
would  have  all  been  equal  co-heirs,  and  each  portion  small ; 
as  there  were  but  two,  each  portion  was  considerable. 

"  Charles  was  the  first  of  the  family  to  marry.  He  wedded 
a  young  woman  of  family  and  fortune,  and  went  to  live  on 
his  mothers  plantation.  They  had  two  sons.  When  these 
boys  were  old  enough  to-  be  sent  to  college  their  mother 
sickened  and  died  of  typhoid  fever,  how  contracted  no  one 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  273 

ever  could  tell.  Their  father  never  married.  His  house 
was  well  managed  by  a  capable  young  mulatto  woman,  who 
made  it  homelike  to  the  boys  when  they  came  there  to  spend 
the  vacation.  At  length,  when  the  young  men  were  rel 
atively  twenty-two  and  twenty-four  years  old,  their  father 
also  died,  and  the  young  men  lived  on  the  farm  like  true 
brothers  until  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  when  they  entered 
the  Southern  army.  Ah  !  poor,  dear,  brave  boys !  One  fell 
at  Fredericksburg,  the  other  at  Cold  Harbor.  Truly  'the 
glory  of  this  world  passeth  away/ 

"I  come  now  to  the  youngest  of  old  Jeremiah's  sons — 
James,  who  was  Cleve's  grandfather — his  mother's  father. 
He  had  a  passion  for  the  military  life,  and  he  entered  the 
army.  When  he  had  gained  his  commission  as  second  lieu 
tenant  of  infantry,  he  marrried  Molly  Jefferson,  a  relation 
of  the  illustrious  Thomas. 

"By  this  time  the  aged  couple,  Jeremiah  and  Josephine 
Cleve,  had  passed  on  to  a  higher  life,  and  John,  their  eldest 
son,  a  man  passed  middle  age,  reigned  at  Wolfscliff  in  their 
stead. 

"John,  a  lonely  man,  invited  the  young  couple  to  make 
their  permanent  home  with  him,  and  they  did  so  until  the 
Mexican  War  broke  out,  when  the  young  lieutenant  had  to 
follow  Gen.  Scott  to  Mexico.  His  young  wife  would  gladly 
have  accompanied  him  'even  to  the  battlefield/  but  she  was 
then  nursing  her  first — and  only — child,  a  baby  girl  not  a 
month  old,  when  the  young  husband  and  father  went  away 
to  the  war,  from  which  he  never  came  back  again. 

"The  tidings  of  his  death  in  the  battle  of  Chepultepec 
came  to  WolfsclirT  as  a  death  blow  to  the  youthful  widow. 
She  pined  and  died  within  the  year,  leaving  her  infant 
daughter,  Cara,  to  the  charge,  yes,  rather  to  the  heart  of 
John  Cleve.  He  brought  up  and  educated  the  orphan  and, 
when  she  was  grown,  went  out  into  the  world  for  her  sake. 

"In  a  winter  they  passed  in  Washington  they  met  young 
Mr.  Stuart,  of  the  Cypresses,  Mississippi.  A  mutual  attach 
ment  between  the  young  people  was  approved  by  John 
Cleve.  And  the  next  summer  Mr.  Stuart,  of  Mississippi, 
and  Miss  Cleve,  of  Virginia,  were  married  at  Wolfscliff. 
They  went  on  an  extended  wedding  tour  which  filled  up  all 
the  summer  and  autumn  months,  and  only  returned  to  the 
husband's  home  in  Mississippi  in  time  for  the  Christmas 


274  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

holidays,  when  they  were  joined  by  John  Cleve,  of  Wolfs 
cliff,  who  came  at  their — not  invitation  only,  but  prayer — 
to  spend  the  winter  with  them. 

"That  was  his  first  and  last  visit — not  that  he  had  not 
enjoyed  it,  nor  that  he  ceased  to  love  his  dear  niece,  but 
that  after  her  marriage  he  grew  more  and  more  of  a  recluse, 
a  student  and  a  dreamer. 

"And  she  visited  him  all  the  more  frequently  that  she 
could  not  induce  him  to  leave  his  home.  Instead  of  going 
to  a  gay  summer  resort  when  she  migrated  to  the  North 
every  summer,  she  would  go  to  Wolfseliff,  until  at  length, 
when  years  passed  and  children  came  every  year,  and  sick 
ened  every  year,  and  she  had  to  take  them  to  the  seaside, 
her  annual  visits  to  Wolfsoliff  were  discontinued. 

"Cleve,  the  youngest  child,  and  the  only  one  who  sur 
vived  his  parents,  was  taken  to  Wolfscliff  when  he  was 
about  three  years  old.  That  was  the  first  and  last  time  he 
ever  saw  his  granduncle.  Of  the  tragic  fate  of  Cleve's 
father  and  mother  you  have  heard  me  tell,  Poley." 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Pole;  "thev  were  fatally  hurt 
on  the  wreck  of  the  TAICIJ  Lee,  I  remember  ." 

"And  after  that,  do  you  know  that  the  aged  John  Cleve, 
of  Wolfscliff,  \vho  sank  deor>er  and  deeper  into  solitary  study 
and  reverie,  utterly  lost  sight  of  his  grand-nephew,  whom 
he  was  contented  to  think  of  ns  at  school  under  the  super 
vision  of  his  guardian.  Juclrre  Barrn,  or  at  college,  or  travel 
ing  in  Europe,  or  on  his  Mississippi  -plantation,  not  know 
ing  that  the  ! fitter  was  a  chnrred  and  blasted  ruin  and  desert 
until  the  death,  in  battle,  of  his  last  nephew  left  him  with 
out  an  heir  bearing  the  name  of  Cleve.  Then  he  instituted 
inquiries  for  his  grand-nephew,  Cleve  Stuart,  but  without 
the  least  effect. 

"Accident  at  last  revealed  Cleve's  residence  in  New 
York.  Mr.  Sam  Wall  ins  went  to  Wafhinsrton  on  legal'busi- 
ness  and  fell  in  with  a  Mr.  Steel e.  of  Wolfswalk,  the  nearest 
town  to  Wolfscliff,  and,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  men 
tioned  the  sage  of  Wolfscliff  and  his  vain  quest  for  his 
nephew  and  heir,  Cleve  Stuart.  Then  Mr.  Walling  gave 
information,  and  the  West  Virginian  went  back  to  the 
mountains  with  the  news  the  hermit  was  pining  to  hear. 

"John  Cleve  immediately  wrote  the  letter  inviting  Mr. 
Stuart  and  myself  to  come  and  make  our  home  with  him." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  275 

"And  you  are  going?" 

"Yes,  I  told  you  so.    Will  you  come  with  us?" 

"To  the  end  of  the  world.  To  the  jumping-off  place. 
And  even  there,  if  you  should  take  the  leap  in  the  dark,  Fll 
jump  down  after  you." 

"Dear  Poley,  I  am  so  glad!" 

"And  why  should  I  stay  behind?  And  why  should  I  not 
go?  I  have  nieces  and  cousins  here,  to  be  sure;  but  they 
are  all  doing  well.  And  though  I  love  them,  I  think  I  love 
you  more,  for  you  do  seem  more  like  a  child  of  my  own  than 
any  of  them  do ;  and  you  seem  to  want  me  more  than  they 
can." 

"I  do  want  you  more,  Poley,  darling.  And  Cleve  is  so 
anxious  for  you  to  go  with  us  for  me.  Though  I  am  now  in 
excellent  health,  he  seems  to  think  I  require  a  nurse  to  look 
after  me  as  much  as  if  I  were  a  sick  baby." 

"And  so  you  be,  my  dear,  for  this  present  time,  and  will 
be  for  some  time  to  come,"  Mrs.  Pole  replied,  nodding 
wisely. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  will  come,  Poley,  dear.  And  listen. 
When  I  get  settled  at  Wolfscliff  next  summer  you  can  in 
vite  any  of  your  relations,  or  all  of  them,  as  many  as  the 
house  will  hold,  to  come  and  stay  with  you.  It  will  be  such 
a  pleasant,  healthful  change  for  them,  from  the  crowded 
city  to  the  fine,  open  mountains." 

"It  would  be  heaven  for  them  to  see  it  only  for  a  day. 
Why,  we  all  went  up  the  North  Eiver  and  saw  the  hills  only 
from  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  and  they  thought  that  was 
paradise,  and  longed  to  be  in  it.  What  would  they  say  to 
staying  a  week  among  the  mountains?"  exclaimed  Poley. 

"Then  they  shall  come.  They  shall  all  come,"  responded 
Palma  delightedly. 

"But,  my  dear  child,  what  would  the  old  gentleman  say?" 
demurred  Mrs.  Pole. 

"Oh,  Poley,  you  don't  know  the  Southern  people.  Neither 
do  I,  for  that  matter,  except  upon  Cleve's  showing.  But  I 
am  sure  I  can  guarantee  you  and  yours  a  welcome  at  Wolfs- 
cliff.  And  mind,  we  won't  have  to  send  to  market  for  meat, 
poultry  and  vegetables,  nor  to  the  grocer's  for  flour,  and 
meal,  and  lard,  and  eggs,  and  such  things.  Nearly  every 
thing,  except  tea  and  sugar,  pepper  and  salt,  and  such,  are 
produced  on  the  farm,  and  cost  next  to  nothing,"  said 


£76  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Palma,  speaking  as  she  believed  and  proving  how  little  she 
knew  of  the  cost  of  labor  or  the  worth  of  time  on  a  farm. 

But  Mrs.  Pole,  who  was  as  ignorant  of  such  a  life  as  was 
her  youthful  friend,  received  every  statement  in  good  faith, 
and  anticipated  good  days  to  come. 

She  looked  once  more  at  her  muffins,  made  the  tea,  and 
then  went  into  the  parlor  to  set  the  table  for  luncheon. 

Palma  went  into  her  bedroom  to  overhaul  trunks  and 
bureau  drawers,  to  see  what  she  could  make  of  her  scant 
wardrobe,  in  view  of  appearing  among  strangers  in  West 
Virginia.  She  had  but  three  suits — the  superb  velvet  dress 
given  her  by  Mrs.  Walling,  which  she  thought  could  only 
be  worn  on  grand  occasions,  and  must  be  quite  useless  in 
the  mountain  farmhouse;  the  well-worn  crimson  cashmere 
now  on  her  back,  and  in  its  very  last  days;  the  fine  India 
muslin,  now  fairly  embroidered,  not  with  unnecessary  fancy 
work,  but  with  needful  darns.  These  were  all  the  dresses 
Palma  owned,  if  we  except  the  old,  faded  blue  gingham 
wrapper  in  which  Cleve  had  first  found  her  in  her  garret. 
'  "I  must  get  Poley  to  sponge  and  press  the  crimson  cash 
mere,  and  then  that  will  do  to  travel  in,  and  with  care  it 
may  last  the  rest  of  the  winter,"  she  said  patiently,  as  she 
locked  her  trunk  and  her  bureau  drawers  and  returned  to 
her  little  parlor,  where  she  sat  down  to  work  on  a  doll's 
dress,  or  what  might  have  passed  for  such. 

While  thus  engaged  she  sang  a  sweet  nursery  song  that 
was  a  reminiscence  of  her  own  infancy. 

Presently  Cleve  came  in,  smiling. 

"Well,  dear,"  he  said,  "I  have  paid  the  rent  and  given  up 
the  rooms,  though  I  had  to  pay  another  month's  rent  in 
lieu  of  a  month's  warning;  and  I  have  settled  every  other 
outstanding  bill  except  the  milkman's.  I  could  not  find 
man  or  bill  if  I  tried,  I  suppose." 

"No;  there  is  no  bill.  We  buy  tickets,  and  pay  cash,  and 
we  have  seven  tickets  left." 

"Then  the  man  can  have  the  benefit,  for  we  go  away  to 
day." 

"From  the  city?" 

" No ;  from  the  flat.  We  will  go  to  a  hotel  to-night,  and 
go  to  Washington  to-morrow,  en  route  for  West  Virginia. 
Can  you  pack  up  in  that  time?" 

"I  can  pack  up  in  an  hour,"  replied  Palma. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  277 

As  she  spoke  the  hall  boy  knocked  and  entered  the  room, 
showing  in  a  man  with  a  bundle. 

"Ah!  that  is  all  right,  thank  you— that  will  do,"  said 
Stuart  as  the  man  set  down  the  box  and  went  away. 

"  It  is  my  new  business  suit  for  winter  wear  in  the  moun 
tain  farmhouse.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Palma?"  he  in 
quired,  cutting  the  twine  and  unpacking  the  box  and  shak 
ing  out  a  suit  of  brown  beaver  cloth,  consisting  of  double- 
breasted  coat,  vest  and  pantaloons. 

"Oh  !  I  think  it  is  excellent.  Such  a  rich,  deep  color,  and 
such  soft,  thick,  warm  material,"  said  the  young  wife  appre- 
ciatingly. 

"Yes,  so  it  is — all  that,"  added  Mrs.  Pole,  who  was  set 
ting  the  tea  urn  on  the  table.  "But,  la !  what  a  blessing  it 
is  that  women's  clothes  grows  on  'em,  like  feathers  do  on 
to  a  bird,  so  they  never  has  no  trouble  nor  expense  to  buy 
any. " 

Stuart  dropped  his  suit  on  the  floor  and  looked  at  his 
wife  in  dismay,  noticed  her  faded,  shabby  cashmere  dress, 
and  became  contrite  for  his  thoughtlessness. 

Mrs.  Pole  said : 

"Lunch  is  ready,  ma'am,"  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

"Don't  mind  Poley,  Cleve,  dear.  She  is  full  of  queer  say 
ings,  you  know,"  said  Palma  conciliatingly.  "Come  now, 
and  sit  down  to  luncheon.  Here  are  some  of  her  nice  muf 
fins."  And  she  took  her  seat  at  the  table  and  began  to  pour 
out  the  tea. 

"I  have  been  an  idiot,  and  a  very  ?elfish  idiot  at  that! 
providing  mvself  with  a  first  rate  suit  of  clothes,  and  even 
displaying  them  to  your  admiration,  without  once  remem 
bering  that  you  also  would  require  raiment.  I  am  obliged 
to  the  woman  for  bringing  me  to  my  senses,"  said  Stuart 
as  he  took  his  seat  opposite  his  wife  arid  helped  himself  to 
a  muffin. 

"Nonsense,  Cleve !  I  have  got  a  tongue  in  my  head,  and 
if  I  had  wanted  anything  would  have  asked  you  for  it  with 
out  hesitation,"  replied  Palma. 

"I  fear  you  would  not  have  recognized  any  want,  my 
dear ;  and  I  fear  it  is  true  that  some  men  are  so  thoughtless 
that  they  act  as  if  women's  clothes  grew  on  them  like  the 
petals  of  a  flower,  and  cost  neither  money  nor  effort  to  re- 


278  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

new.  But  I  see  now.  Yes,  dear  rose  of  my  life,  I  see  your 
petals  are  fading." 

No  more  was  said  until  after  luncheon,  when  Cleve  put  a 
fifty-dollar  note  in  Palma's  hand  and  said : 

"Go  out  and  get  what  is  necessary  for  your  comfort,  my 
dear;  and  take  some  lady  friend  with  you,  for  I  fear  you 
have  very  little  experience  in  shopping." 

"Thank  you,  Cleve,"  replied  Palma,  laughing;  "but  I 
shall  take  Poley.  She  will  ho  a  better  judge  of  what  I  need 
than  any  of  jur  fine  lady  friends." 

"Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  admitted  Stuart,  and  the 
discussion  ended. 

When  Mrs.  Pole  had  cleared  away  the  table  and  taken  her 
own  luncheon  Palma  invited  her  to  go  on  a  shopping  expe 
dition;  and  they  put  on  their  bonnets  and  outer  garments 
and  started.  Palma's  was  only  the  plush  jacket  that  be 
longed  to  her  cashmere  suit,  and  she  shivered  so  much  as 
she  walked  that  Mrs.  Pole  said: 

"The  very  first  thing  that  you  must  buy  must  be  a  heavy 
cloth  coat.  You  can  get  one  for  twenty  dollars.  I  should 
prefer  a  Scoach  plaid  shawl,  but  young  people  don't  wear 
such  things  now,  only  neat-fitting  coats,  or  sacques,  or  dol 
mans." 

They  went  down  on  Broadway  and  into  store  after  store, 
trying  where  they  could  find  at  once  the  cheapest  and  the 
best. 

At  length  Palma  was  suited  with  a  close-fitting  heavy 
cloth  coat  that  not  only  satisfied  herself  but  also  Mrs.  Pole. 

"Now,  then,  as  you  like  it  so  well,  keep  it  on,  child,  and 
have  your  plush  jacket  done  up  in  a  parcel  and  I  will  take 
it  home/'  said  the  good  woman. 

And  this  was  done. 

But  then  they  went  to  the  suit  department,  where  Palma 
selected  an  olive-green  pressed  flannel  dress  for  herself,  and 
had  to  take  off  her  coat  to  try  it  on.  Then  she  bought  a 
beaver  bonnet  and  a  leather  hand-bag,  and  her  shopping  was 
complete. 

Mrs.  Pole,  who  had  saved  up  the  wages  she  had  received, 
bought  a  very  heavy  tartan  shawl,  two  pairs  of  thick  yarn 
stockings,  a  pair  of  stout  goat-skin  boots,  a  pair  of  warm 
woolen  gloves,  and  a  thick  green  berege  veil,  and  felt  her- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  279 

self  provided  for  defense  against  the  winter  on  the  mountain 
farm. 

When  they  reached  home  they  found  Stuart  waiting  for 
them.  He  said: 

"Pray  do  not  trouble  to  get  dinner  this  evening,  as  we 
can  dine  at  the  hotel  where  we  are  to  spend  the  night." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  that,  on  Poley's  account  for  she  is 
very  tired.  She  insisted  on  bringing  home  all-  our  pur 
chases  herself,  and  just  look  how  she  has  loaded  herself 
down!"  said  Palma,  laughing,  though,  in  fact,  the  two 
heaviest  items  of  the  purchases,  namely,  Palma's  beaver 
cloth  coat  and  Poley's  tartan  shawl,  were  worn  home  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  respective  owners. 

"But  I  must  beg  you  to  pack  up  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
I  will  help  you,  if  you  will  show  me  how,"  he  answered. 

"That  would  be  an  awful  hindrance,  sir!  Just  let  me 
get  my  breath  for  a  minute  and  I'll  be  all  right.  I  am  not 
tired  one  bit.  And  we'll  get  through  the  packing  in  a  jiffy  ! 
It's  very  easy  to  move  when  there's  no  furnitur',  and  noth 
ing  but  one's  clothes  and  things  to  pack,"  said  Mrs.  Pole, 
sitting  down  on  the  first  chair,  dropping  her  bundles  on  the 
floor,  and  untying  the  broad  plaid  ribbon  strings  of  her  big 
black  straw  bonnet. 

She  kept  her  word,  for  in  five  minutes  she  was  on  her  feet 
again,  and  in  lees  than  an  hour  the  trunks  were  packed, 
locked  and  strapped. 

Stuart  wrote  the  labels  and  pasted  them  on  the  tops,  and 
ihev  stood  rendy  for  the  expressman. 

Then  the  three  put  on  their  outer  garments  and  turned  to 
leave  their  flat. 

Pal  ma-  paused  and  looked  back  half  regretfully. 

"Good-by,  pretty  little  home,"  she  said.  "We  have  been 
very  happy  in  you,  but  you  must  not  mind  our  going  away. 
We  shall  have  to  go  away  from  our  bodies  some  of  these 
days !  But  I  hope  you  will  have  very  pleasant  tenants  al 
ways.  Good-by." 

Stuart  did  not  laugh  at  her,  but  Mrs  Pole  did,  and  said 
as  they  went  to  the  elevator: 

"If  I  didn't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  child,  I  should 
really  sometimes  think  you  were  crazy  I" 

"  Oh,  Poley !  don't  you  know  there  is  a  soul  in  places  and 


280  FOE  WHOSE  SAKE? 

in  things,  as  well  as  there  is  in  all  other  living  creatures?" 
she  answered. 

Mrs.  Pole  did  not  reply,  but  thought  within  herself:  "I 
do  suppose  as  there  be  some  of  the  sensiblest  people  crazy 
in  spots." 

They  went  down  in  the  elevator;  and  what  a  misfit  of 
words  there  is  in  that  sentence! 

They  found  the  janitor  waiting  in  the  office  to  see  them 
off.  Mr.  Stuart  gave  him  the  key  of  the  vacated  apartments, 
and  they  all  shook  hands  with  him  and  left,  with  the  request 
that  he  would  see  to  the  delivery  of  their  trunks  to  the 
expressman. 

Then  they  walked  down  the  street  to  the  corner  of  the 
avenue  where  the  cars  passed.  Mr.  Stuart  hailed  the  first 
down  one,  and  they  boarded  it.  They  rode  about  the  length 
of  twenty  blocks,  got  off  and  walked  across  town  to  Broad 
way,  and  entered  the  office  of  the  hotel  that  Stuart  had 
chosen  for  their  sojourning  place  that  night. 

They  were  easily  provided  with  rooms. 

When  Palma  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  in  her  chamber 
Mrs.  Pole,  who  still  stood  up  in  her  street  costume,  said : 

"Now,  ma'am,  if  you  please,  I  must  leave  you  for  a  little 
while." 

"What,  Poley  dear!  Is  there  any  more  shopping  to  do? 
Have  you  forgotten  anything?"  demanded  Palma. 

"No,  my  child  !  But  as  we  are  to  start  to-morrow  morn 
ing  I  must  go  and  take  leave  of  my  kinfolks  to-night." 

"  Oh,  Poley !  And  they  live  away  downtown  somewhere  ! 
And — you  can  never  go  alone  !" 

"Why  not,  child?  I  have  been  used  to  go  alone  all  about 
the  city  all  the  days  of  my  life,  even  when  I  was  a  young 
woman,  and  nothing  ever  happened  to  me,  or  even  threat 
ened  to  happen  to  me !  And  if  nothing  didn't  in  my  youth., 
nothing  ain't  like  to  do  it  in  my  age !  Don't  be  uneasy, 
child!  I'll  be  back  by  ten  o'clock,  and  one  o'  my  nephies 
will  see  me  here  safe." 

"But  won't  you  wait  until  after  dinner?  Cleve  says  they 
keep  a  sumptuous  table  here." 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  get  the  good  of  it,  my  dear,  but 
as  for  me,  I  must  hurry  away.  I'll  make  up  for  missing  of 
my  dinner  by  eating  a  hearty  supper  when  I  come  back." 

"Take  care,  you  must  not  risk  a  return  of  those  horrid 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  281 

nights  you  had  at  Lull's,  you  know,"  said  Palma,  with  a 
sudden  recollection  of  the  sleep-walking  and  magpie-hiding 
propensities  that  had  been  features  of  those  disturbed 
nights,  though  features  that  happily  Mrs.  Pole  had  never 
suspected. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  be  afraid !  It  was  the  cold,  heavy  pastry 
that  did  it  at  Lull's!  There  was  no  basket  beggars  to 
carry  off  the  cold  pie  crusts  and  puddin's,  and  me  and  the 
girls  used  to  eat  'em  all  up  at  night  to  keep  'em. from  being 
wasted  on.  And  I  never  heard  of  their  hurting  anybody  but 
me,  either.  But  don't  you  be  afraid.  I  shall  eat  nothing 
but  the  very  best  of  nuterieious  and  digesterable  food,  like 
stewed  oysters  and  sich." 

"Very  well,  Poley.  Eat  what  you  will,  so  it  shall  agree 
with  you.  And  now  don't  fail  to  invite  your  relations  in 
my  name  as  well  as  in  your  own  to  come  to  Wolfscliff  to 
see  you  next  summer." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,  for  reminding  me  again.  Now  I 
know  you  are  in  airnest  and  I'll  be  sure  to  invite  them." 

"Why,  Poley,  I  am  always  in  earnest." 

"To  be  sure,  I  know  you  are,  ma'am,  dear  child,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Pole,  divided  in  her  style  of  address,  between 
her  respect  for  her  mistress  and  her  tenderness  of  her  pet. 

And  then  again  she  took  leave  and  went  out. 

Cleve  came  out  and  escorted  Palma  down  to  dinner, 
where  the  many  and  slow  courses  occupied  them  for  more 
than  an  hour. 

At  ten  o'clock  Poley  punctually  made  her  appearance, 
and  ate  a  hearty  supper  of  stewed  oysters  and  brown  stout 
with  her  nephew. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  whole  party  retired  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


TO   THE    MOUNTAIN    FARM 


THEY  rose  early  in  the  morning,  breakfasted  and  drove 
down  to  Cortlandt  Street  ferry  to  take  the  boat  for  Jersey 
City. 

They  caught  the  eight-thirty  train  in  good  time  and  with 
out  hurry. 


282  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Stuart  found  their  baggage  all  right,  waiting  for  them, 
checked  it  to  Washington,  and  then  entered  with  his  com 
panions  into  the  ladies'  car,  and  the  express  train  started  on 
its  Southern  flight.  Their  journey  was  quick,  pleasant  and 
uneventful. 

Early  in  the  evening  of  that  day  they  reached  Washing 
ton. 

Leaving  their  trunks  in  the  baggage  room  at  the  depot, 
and  taking  only  their  hand-bags,  they  went  to  one  of  the 
best  hotels,  where  they  dined  and  engaged  rooms  for  the 
night  and  the  next  day. 

This  was  Palma's  first  sight  of  the  capital  of  her  country, 
and  Cleve  determined  to  linger  a  few  hours  to  show  her  the 
public  buildings. 

The  next  morning  Stuart  engaged  a  hack  and  took  his 
two  companions  for  a  long,  circuitous  drive,  which  should 
include  visits  to  the  White  House,  the  State,  War,  Navy  and 
Treasury  Departments  and  the  Capitol.  But  these  visits 
were  necessarily  short.  There  was  no  time  to  pay  their  re 
spects  to  the  President  in  the  Executive  Mansion,  or  to 
listen  to  the  debates  in  the  Senate  Chamber  or  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  or  to  the  cases  in  the  Supreme  Court. 
They  had  to  get  back  to  lunch  and  then  to  take  the  train  for 
West  Virginia. 

Two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  found  them  again  seated  in 
the  cars  and  flying  westward. 

Up  to  this  hour  the  day  had  been  clear  and  mild,  but 
now  the  sky  began  to  cloud  over,  and  when  they  reached 
Alexandria  the  snow  began  to  fall,  and  as  they  left  the  old 
town  behind  them  and  the  short  winter  afternoon  drew  to  a 
close,  the  storm  thickened,  if  that  could  be  called  a  storm 
in  which  there  was  no  wind,  but  a  cataclysm  of  snow  falling 
directly,  silently  and  continuously  upon  the  earth. 

Strange  scenes  were  traced  on  the  window  panes  without, 
weird,  beautiful,  fantastic  scenes — cities,  palaces,  gardens, 
trees — all  drawn  in  frosted  silver.  They  fascinated  the  im 
agination  of  Palma,  who  was  never  tired  of  gazing  and 
dreaming.  Little  or  nothing  could  be  seen  through  the 
storm  of  the  country  over  ivhich  they  were  flying. 

They  reached  Oaklands,  on  the  Alleghanies,  late  at  night. 
They  had  taken  through  tickets  to  the  end  of  their  railway 
journey,  and  the  train  was  going  on  that  night ;  yet,  as  the 


FOR  WHOSE -SAKE?  283 

storm  continued,  they  determined  to  lay  over  until  the  next 
morning.  Leaving  their  trungs  on  the  baggage  car  to  go  on 
to  their  destination,  they  took  their  hand-bags  and  walked 
through  the  thickly  falling  snow  to  the  hotel,  where  they 
were  comforted  by  clean  rooms,  glorious  hickory  wood  fires, 
and  a  delicious  supper  of  venison  steaks,  broiled  ham,  buck 
wheat  cakes,  hot  rolls,  tea,  coffee,  and  rich  cream,  and  but 
ter,  and  honey  such  as  is  seldom  found  anywhere. 

It  had  been  a  fatiguing  day,  and  as  they  could  see  nothing 
of  the  country  for  the  snowstorm,  they  all  went  to  bed  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

The  next  morning  they  rose  to  a  new  life. 

The  storm  had  ceased.  The  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun 
was  shining  over  a  splendid,  a  magnificent,  a  dazzling  world 
of  mountains,,  valleys,  fields  and  forests,  all  arrayed  in  white 
and  decked  with  diamonds. 

"  Oh !  Cleve,"  cried  Palrna,  looking  out  from  the  upper 
window  of  her  bedroom,  "does  it  seem  possible  that  only 
yesterday  we  were  in  a  crowded  city,  not  two  hundred  miles 
away,  and  that  now  we  find  ourselves  in  this  magnificent 
scene  ?  Why,  Cleve,  yesterday  seems  to  be  a  thousand  years 
behind,  and  this  to  be  another  planet !" 

Her  rhapsodies  were  interrupted  by  the  breakfast  bell. 

And  for  all  answer  Cleve  smiled,  drew  her  arm  within  his 
own  and  led  her  down  to  the  breakfast  table. 

There  were  some  few  other  wayfarers  present  in  the 
room,  and  these  men  were  standing  around  the  great,  roar 
ing  wood  fire  and  talking  politics  or  crops.  But  they  soon 
left  their  position  and  sat  down  at  the  board.  Mrs.  Pole  was 
there,  too,  ready  to  join  her  friends. 

"Did  you  ever  dream  of  such  a  world  as  this,  Poley?" 
whispered  Palm  a  as  the  three  sat  down  in  a  row,  Palma 
being  in  the  middle. 

"No,  never  in  all  my  life  !  I  never  even  'magined  as  there 
could  be  such  a  place  as  this !  And,  oh !  ain't  it  cold, 
neither?" 

"  Cold,  but  such  a  fine,  pure,  healthy  cold.  And  the  hot 
coffee  will  warm  you,  Poley." 

The  breakfast  was  in  many  respects  a  repetition  of  the 
supper,  and  in  all  respects  equal  to  it. 

"Seems  to  me  I  eat  twice  as  much  at  every  meal  as  I 
ever  eat  before  in  my  life,  and  yet  I  feel  hungry  in  an  hour 


284  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

aftr  I  have  finished.  I  do  believe  if  I  was  to  live  up  in 
these  regions  I  should  have  such  an  appetite  I  should  think 
of  nothing  but  eating  and  drinking  from  morning  till  night, 
and  dreaming  of  nothing  but  eating  and  drinking  from 
night  till  morning!" 

"I  wonder  how  long  that  would  last?"  queried  Pahna, 
but  Mrs.  Pole  did  not  answer.  She  had  turned  her  atten 
tion  the  the  venison  steaks. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  the  three  put  on  their  outer 
garments  and  walked  through  the  main  street  of  the  moun 
tain  town  to  the  railway  station,  where  they  had  to  wait 
for  nearly  half  an  hour  for  the  Eastern  train  to  come  in. 
Then  they  took  their  seats  on  board  of  it,  and  were  once 
more  flying  westward  through  the  magnificent  mountain 
world  in  its  splendid  whiter  garb  of  ice  and  snow. 

All  day  long  our  travelers  reveled  in  the  glorious  pano5- 
rama  that  flew  past  the  windows  of  their  car,  until  night 
closed  in  and  hid  the  scene  from  their  vision. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  reached  the  little  way  sta 
tion  of  Wolfswalk.  where  they 'left  the  train,  which  stopped 
half  a  minute  and  tben  sped  on  westward. 

It  was  too  dark  for  our  party  to  see  anything  but  the  few 
glimmering  lights  at  the  station  and  in  the  stable  yard  of 
the  village  tavern  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  the 
ghostly  forms  of  the  mountains  looming  through  the  ob 
scurity. 

"It  is  now  seven  o'clock,  and  we  are  three  miles  from 
Wolf scl iff  Hall.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  have  to  spend 
the  night  at  the  inn  here,"  said  Cleve  Stuart  as  he  drew  the 
arm  of  his  wife  within  his  own  and  prepared  to  cross  the 
country  road,  or  village  street,  as  you  may  prefer  to  call  it, 

"If  the  inn  is  anything  like  that  of  Oaklands  I  shall  not 
be  very  sorry.  Come  on,  Poley.  Keep  close  behind  us," 
said  Palma. 

"'Scuse  me,  marster;  is  you  Marse  Cleve  Stuart?"  in 
quired  a  voice  from  the  darkness  at  his  elbow. 

"Yes.     Who  are  you?"  demanded  Stuart. 

"  'Sias,  san,  old  Marse  John  Glebe's  man  fom  Wolfskif ; 
yas,  sah,  dat's  me,"  replied  the  invisible. 

"And  you  have  been  sent  to  meet  us,  eh?  Come  in  here. 
Let  us  take  a  look  at  one  another,"  said  Cleve  with  a  laugh, 
as  he  led  the  way  into  the  lighted  station. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  285 

The  negro  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  tall,  stout,  strong 
and  very  black,  and  clothed  in  a  warm  suit  of  thick,  heavy 
homespun  cloth. 

"You  have  been  sent  to  meet  us?"  again  suggested 
Stuart. 

"Yas,  sah !  along  wid  de  ox  cart,  to  fetch  you  an' — de 
ladies,  do'  I  did'n  know  as  dere  wasn't  no  more'n  one  lady; 
but,  laws !  de  more  de  better,  I  say,  marster,  and  my  name's 
'Sias,  old  Marse  John  Glebe's  man  fm  Wolfskif  Hall— yas, 
sah." 

"Did  you  say  you  had  brought  the  ox  cart  for  us?"  in 
quired  Stuart  in  some  dismay  as  he  thought  of  his  dainty 
wife. 

"Yas,  sah!  I  has  fetched  the  ox  cart,  wid  Baron  an' 
Markiss  yoked  on,  an'  dey  is  de  best  beasts  on  de  plantation, 
kind  and  gentle  as  new  milk,  'specially  Baron,  to  fetch  you 
an'  de  ladies  and  de  luggage,  all  at  de  same  time,  an'  dere's 
a-plenty  o'  hay  for  de  ladies  to  sit  on  jes'  as  clean  an'  as 
dry  n'  s  sweet  as  wiolits." 

"But  was  there  no  carriage  in  my  uncle's  stables?"  in 
quired  Cleve. 

"Plenty.  But,  Lor',  marster,  dey  was  one  an'  all  so  ole 
an'  rusty,  an'  flip-floppy,  an'  ramshakelly,  dat  dey  couldn't 
be  trusted  on  good  roads  in  good  wedder  by  daylight,  let 
alone  bad  roads  in  bad  wedder  by  night.  An'  wot  is 
true  ob  de  kerridges  mought  be  said  ob  de  hosses,  likewise.. 
Dey  wouldn'  be  sho-futted  on  sich  roads  in  sich  wedder  at 
night.  De  ox  cart  is  de  mos'  safes'  an'  de  oxes  is  de  mos' 
sho-futtedes'.  An'  yo'  wouldn'  like  to  hab  de  ladies'  necks 
broke  for  de  sake  ob  pomps  an'  wanities  in  kerridges! 
Would  yo' now?" 

Cleve  laughed,  but  Palma  put  in  her  word : 

"Oh,  Cleve,  I'm  delighted!  It  is  so  new!  such  fun!  to 
ride  on  the  hay  in  an  ox  cart !  It  seems  so  of  a  piece  with 
all  our  strange  experiences !  Yes  !  this  is  some  new  planet ! 
Not  our  old  familiar  earth !" 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  here  to  meet  us?  We  are  a 
day  and  a  half  behind  time,"  inquired  Stuart. 

"Ole  Marse  John  Clebe,  ob  Wolfskif  Hall— an'  I  am  his 
owTn  man  'Sias,  wot  nebber  would  'mancipate  him  in  de  ole 
ages  ob  his  onnerrubble  life  fur  all  de  President  an' 
Con'gess  might  say — telled  me  to  come  yere  to  meet  yer  an' 


286  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

stay  for  de  las'  train  till  you  'rove,  an'  dis  is  de  mos'  sec- 
ondes'  day  as  I  hab  been  yere  to  meet  yo' !  An'  now,  young 
marse,  ef  yo'll  listen  to  me,  yo'll  put  de  ladies  in  de  cart  an' 
we'll  jog  off." 

"All  right,  'Sias.  Show  us  the  way  to  the  chariot," 
laughed  Cleve. 

The  negro  set  his  lantern  down  in  a  chair,  took  from  it  a 
bit  of  candle,  which  he  lighted  by  a  match  and  replaced, 
and  said : 

"Now  I  shows  the  way,  young  marster,"  and  walked  out 
of  the  station,  followed  by  Stuart,  Palma  and  Poley. 

He  led  them  to  the  lower  end  of  the  platform  near  which 
the  ox  cart  stood,  with  its  floor  thickly  carpeted  with  layers 
of  hay,  and  with  its  yoke  of  oxen  standing  and  pawing  in 
the  cold  night  air.  Their  heads  were  turned  away  from  the 
town,  as  if  all  ready  for  their  jog  across  the  country. 

Stuart  put  Palma  upon  the  cart,  and  she  settled  herself 
in  the  hay  with  childish  delight. 

Then  he  helped  Mrs.  Pole  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

"And  now,  Marse  Glebe,  ef  yo'  will  jes'  git  up  dar  on 
dat  bench,  in  front  ob  de  two  ladies,  yo'll  obleege  dis  corn- 
pinny!  'Gaze,  yo'  see,  I's  got  to  walk  at  the  head  ob  de 
creeturs  to  keep  'em  straight  on  to  de  road." 

"Is  that  necessary?"  inquired  Stuart  as  he  climbed  to  his 
place  and  settled  himself  comfortably. 

"  'N'essary  ?'  "  exclaimed  'Sias.  "Why,  la,  bress  yer  soul, 
Marse  Glebe !  dere's  places  'long  dis  road  w'ere  ef  dis  yere 
nigh  beast  was  to  make  a  misstep,  we'd  all  go  ober  down 
free  fo'  hunderd  feet  to  the  rocks  below.  No,  sah !  I's 
gwine  walk  at  dis  creetur's  head  and  carry  my  lantern,  too," 
concluded  'Sias  as  the  oxen  moved  slowly  and  heavily  on 
ward  as  was  their  manner. 

The  lantern,  might  have  been,  and  probably  was,  a  help 
to  the  vision  of  'Sias  and  so  to  the  safety  of  his  party,  but 
it  could  show  only  a  small  section  of  the  road  immediately 
under  the  feet  of  the  conductor. 

Nothing  could  be  seen  of  the  surrounding  country  except 
that  it  consisted  of  densely  wooded  mountains,  whose  skele 
ton  trees  were  faintly  outlined  against  the  ground  of  snow. 

When  their  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  darkness  the 
travelers  in  the  cart  could  see,  to  their  horror,  that  they 
were  plodding  along  a  rough  and  narrow  road  between  a 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  287 

high  rise  of  rocks  on  their  right  and  a  deep  fall  on  their 
left;  but  the  cautious  negro  guide  with  his  lantern  walked 
by  the  heads  of  the  oxen  between  them  and  the  precipice, 
keeping  them  out  of  the  terrible  danger.  For  an  hour  their 
way  lay  along  this  road,  and  then  began  slowly  to  descend 
a  gradual  slope,  and  finally  turned  to  the  right  and  entered 
a  thick  wood. 

'Sias  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  and  said: 

"Peoples  sez,  w'en  dey  gits  out'n  dif'culty  an'  danger,  as 
dey's  'out'n  de  woods.'  But,  la !  I  allers  feels  as  if  I  wasn't 
safe  until  I  was  offen  dat  dar  debbiPs  shelf,  up  dar,  an'  got 
down  yere  in  dese  woods." 

"How  far  are  we  from  the  house,  'Sias?"  inquired  Stuart. 

"  On'y  'bout  a  mile,  young  marster.  Get  dere  werry  soon 
now.  Dis  yere  is  all  ole  Marse  John  Glebe's  Ian'." 

"Oh!  is  it?" 

"Yas,  sah.  An'  dis  woods  usen  to  be  called  Wolfswalk 
in  de  ollen  times,  I's  heern  says,  'cause  dar  was  mos'  as 
many  wolfs  as  trees,  an'  de  station  ober  yonder  was  just 
named  arter  dese  yer  woods,  an'  dats  de  trufe  for  a  fac'." 

They  jogged  through  the  dark,  mysterious-looking  woods 
for  some  time  in  silence,,  Palma  only  once  murmuring  : 

"It  is  like  a  dream,  or  a  scene  in  a  fairy  tale.  I  feel  as 
if  we  should  come  upon  something  soon — an  ogre's  castle, 
an  enchanted  beauty's  palace,  or  something.  Don't  wake 
me  up,  please,  anybody." 

What  they  did  come  upon  very  soon  was  a  glimmering 
light,  that  seemed  to  shoot  here  and  there  through  the  thick, 
leafless  trees  like  a  firefly,  had  it  been,  summer  instead  of 
winter. 

"It's  a  lamp  in  de  big  hall;  it  shines  right  froo  de  fan 
light  ober  de  front  do',  an'  it  seems  to  flit  about  so  'caze 
sometimes  de  trees  sho'  it  an'  sometimes  dey  doan't,"  'Sias 
explained.  And  as  he  spoke  the  ox  cart  slowly  and  clumsily 
drew  up  before  a  large,  oblong  building  of  the  simplest  and 
plainest  style  of  architecture  common  among  the  wealthier 
class  of  that  region  at  the  time  the  house  was  planned. 

Though  the  travelers  could  not,  at  that  time  of  night, 
discern  its  features,  yet  this  seems  the  best  time  for  their 
historian  to  describe  it. 

The  house  was  built  in  the  rude,  strong,  plain  style  of  the 
best  old  colonial  mansions,  of  rough-hewn  gray  rocks  of 


288  JbOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

every  variegated  shade  of  red,  blue,  green,  yellow,  purple 
and  orange,  which  gave  a  mosaic  aspect  to  the  walls.  It  was 
an  oblong  double  house,  with  a  broad  double  door,  having 
two  long  windows  on  each  side  of  the  first  floor,  and  five 
windows  on  the  second  floor,  surmounted  by  a  steep  roof, 
with  five  dormer  windows,  and  buttressed  by  four  huge 
chimneys,  two  at  each  gable  end.  There  were  many  old  oak, 
elm  and  chestnut  trees  around  the  dwelling,  and  there  were 
smaller  houses,  of  rude  construction,  in  the  rear. 

When  the  ox  cart  stopped  before  the  door  Stuart  got  off 
his  seat  and  lifted  down  his  wife  and  her  attendant.  He 
tucked  Palma's  hand  under  his  arm  and  led  her  up  the  few 
steps  that  went  up  to  the  front  door.  That  door  was  open 
and  full  of  light  from  a  large  lamp  that  hung  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  spacious  hall,  and  within  the  door  stood  the 
master  of  the  house  to  welcome  his  coming  relatives. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  height — the  thinnest,  whitest, 
most  shadowy  living  man  they  had  ever  seen. 

"You  are  welcome  to  Wolfscliff,  my  dears,"  he  said,  giv 
ing  a  hand  each  to  Palma  and  to  Cleve. 

"We  are  very  glad  to  see  you,  uncle,"  said  the  two  in 
one  breath. 

"And  this  lady?"  said  the  old-fashioned  gentleman,  with 
native  courtesy  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Pole,  of 
whom  he  had  just  caught  sight. 

"Our  friend,  Mrs.  Pole,  who  never  leaves  Palma,  uncle," 
explained  Cleve. 

"  Ah !  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  ma'am/'  said  Mr.  Cleve. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  only  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart's  house 
keeper  and  attendant,"  said  Mrs.  Pole,  who  would  not  con 
sent  to  seem  a  half  an  inch  above  her  real  social  position. 

"Ah!  And  a  verv  trusted  and  esteemed  friend,  also,  I 
have  no  doubt,"  replied  the  old  gentleman. 

"She  is,  indeed,  sir,  like  a  mother  to  my  delicate  Palma," 
assented  Stuart. 

"I  am  very  glad  she  consented  to  accompany  you  here," 
said  Mr.  Cleve. 

In  the  moment  they  stood  there  talking  Palma  took  in 
with  her  eyes  the  whole  of  the  spacious  hall.  It  ran  from 
front  to  back  through  the  middle  of  the  house,  with  double 
doors  at  each  end,  four  dors  on  either  side  and  a  broad 
staircase  going  up  from  the  midst.  A  hat  rack  and  half  a 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  289 

dozen  heavy  oak  chairs  were  the  only  furniture.  There  was 
no  carpet  on  the  polished  oak  floor,  no  pictures  on  the 
paneled  wall. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  parlor,  or  would  you  prefer,  first, 
to  go  to  your  rooms  ?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman,  opening 
a  door  on  his  right. 

"Which  would  you  rather  do,  Palma?"  inquired  Cleve. 

"Oh,  go  into  the  parlor!  You  see,  uncle,  we  have  not 
come  through  dust,  but  through  snow,  and  we  are  as  clean 
as  when  we  had  washed  this  morning,"  replied  Palma. 

The  old  man  led  the  way  into  a  large,  square  room,  with 
paneled  walls,  polished  floor,  heavy  walnut  chairs  and 
tables,  and  a  broad,  open  fireplace,  with  brass  andirons,  on 
which  was  piled  about  an  eighth  of  a  cord  of  blazing  hickory 
logs.  Around  this  was  a  brass  fender ;  above  it,  on  the  wall, 
a  handsome  carved  oak  mantelpiece  surmounted  by  a  broad 
mirror,  and  down  before  it  on  the  floor  a  rich  old  Turkey 
rug.  Two  large  armchairs  stood  in  each  chimney  corner. 

"Now,  my  dears,  and  you,  ma'am,  make  yourselves  com 
fortable  and  be  quite  at  home.  Supper  will  be  ready  in  a 
few  minutes,"  said  Mr.  Cleve  as  he  sank  into  one  of  the 
armchairs. 

Then  Palma  saw  how  fragile  he  really  was — his  trans 
parent  face  was  as  white  as  ashes,  his  thin  hair  and  thin 
whiskers  were  like  floss  of  silver,  his  hands  were  the  longest, 
thinnest,  fairest  hands  ever  seen.  He  was  clothed  in  a  dark 
blue  dressing-gown  which  he  folded  double  over  his  knees, 
and  the  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head  was  covered  with 
a  much  worn  old  blue  velvet  skullcap.  His  aspect  suggested 
frost,  cobweb,  chrysalis.  Only  his  deep-set,  soft  brown  eyes 
shone  warm  and  bright  with  the  fire  of  life,  light  and  love 
from  the  true  soul,  so  slightly  held  by  the  fragile  frame 
and  almost  ready  to  fly. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME. 


MR.  CLEVE  stretched  out  his  hand  and  pulled  the  bell. 
An  elderly  colored  woman  came  in. 
"Serve  the  supper  in  here,  Polly.     The  dining-room  is 
too  cold,  I  think/'  he  said. 


£90  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Yes,  marster,"  the  woman  replied  and  went  out. 

"It  is  in  the  northwest  angle  of  the  house,  and  has  four 
large  windows — two  north  and  two  west — which  shake  and 
rattle,  and  let  in  the  wind  when  it  blows,  as  it  does  now, 
from  that  quarter;  and  also  sends  the  smoke  in  volumes 
down  the  chimney.  So  I  think  it  will  be  more  comfortable 
for  us  to  eat  supper  here,"  Mr.  Cleve  explained  as  he  bent 
forward  and  spread  his  thin,  fair  hands  to  the  fire. 

"I  am  sure  there  could  not  be  a  pleasanter  room  than 
this,"  said  Palma  from  her  low  rocker  as  she  basked  in 
the  warm  glow. 

"Ah-h-h  I"  added  Stuart  with  a  sigh  of  deep  satisfaction 
as  he  rubbed  his  hands. 

The  woman  soon  came  back  with  faded  felt  crumb  cloth 
in  her  arms,  which  she  went  on  to  lay  down  on  the  shining 
oak  floor. 

She  was  followed  by  a  colored  girl  with  the  table  damask 
in  her  hands.  Between  them  they  set  the  table,  adorning  it 
with  rare  old  china  and  antique  silver.  And  then  a  good 
supper,  in  honor  of  the  new  arrivals,  as  well  as  in  considera 
tion  of  the  weary  and  hungry  travelers.  There  was  tea, 
coffee  and  chocolate,  milk,  cream  and  butter,  rolls,  waffles 
and  cakes,  ham,  poultry  and  game,  eggs,  cheese  and  fruit — 
variety,  without  superabundance. 

Mr.  Cleve  arose  and  invited  his  relatives  to  take  their 
seats,  and  himself  led  Palma  to  the  head  of  the  table,  saying 
pleasantly : 

"This  is  your  place  henceforth,  my  child — a  place  that 
has  not  been  filled  since  my  dear  niece,  your  husband's 
mother,  married  and  left  me." 

Palma  raised  and  kissed  the  pale  ha-nd  that  led  her,  and 
then  sat  down  befort  the  tea  tray. 

The  old  gentleman  sat  opposite  to  her  at  the  foot,  Stuart 
on  the  right  and  Mrs.  Pole  on  the  left  side. 

The  venerable  master  of  the  house  asked  the  blessing,  and 
the  feast  began.  The  two  colored  women  waited  on  the 
table — the  elder  one  stood  beside  Palma  to  hand  the  cups ; 
the  younger  beside  Mr.  Cleve,  to  pass  the  plates.  Varied 
and  appetizing  as  was  the  supper,  the  host  partook  bir., 
^daintily,  contenting  himself  with  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a 
wafer.  But  Cleve  and  Palma  had  healthy  young  appetites, 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  291 

and  so  delighted  the  hearts  of  the  waiting  women  with  their 
appreciation  of  the  good  things  set  before  them. 

When  the  meal  was  over  and  the  table  cleared  of  the  serv 
ice  the  elder  woman  set  a  lamp  upon  it;  then  brought  the 
family  Bible  and  laid  it  open  where  the  place  was  kept  by 
her  master's  spectacles  as  a  book  mark. 

"Come,  my  dear  children,  let  us  draw  near  to  Our 
Father,"  said  the  patriarch.  And  once  more  they  gathered 
around  the  table,  on  this  occasion  for  worship. 

John  Cleve  read  the  first  chapter  of  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount;  then  made  a  pause,  that  all  might  reflect  on  the 
divine  lesson;  next  led  in  the  evening  thanksgiving  and 
prayer,  offering  up  on  this  occasion  especially  grateful  ac 
knowledgments  for  the  dear  children  sent  to  be  a  comfort 
to  his  declining  days,  and  prayers  for  their  spiritual  and 
eternal  welfare.  Then  he  pronounced  the  benediction,  and 
the  evening  service  was  over. 

As  soon  as  they  arose  from  their  knees  the  elder  colored 
woman,  whom  her  master  had  called  Polly,  came  up  to 
Palma  and  said : 

"Please,  ma'am,  if  you  would  like  to  go  to  your  room  now 
I  am  ready  to  wait  on  you." 

"Thank  you.  I  should  like  to  retire,"  replied  wearied 
Palma. 

"An'  de  oder  lady,  likewise,"  added  the  woman,  nodding 
toward  Mrs.  Pole. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  she  would.  She  is  even  more  fatigued 
than  I  am — than  either  of  us,"  replied  Palma. 

"W'ich  it  is  her  age-able  years,  ma'am,  of  coorse.  She 
can't  be  as  young  as  she  used  to  be,"  said  the  woman 
gravely. 

"Probably  not,"  admitted  Palma  with  a  smile. 

The  waiting  woman  lighted  two  short  sperm  candles,  in 
short  brackets,  and,  with  one  in  each  hand,  prepared  to 
lead  the  way. 

"Shall  we  bid  you  good-night,  uncle,  dear?"  inquired 
Palma,  going  to  the  side  of  his  easy-chair  and  bending  over 
him. 

"You  may,  my  dear,  and  your  friend;  but  I  must  have 
ten  minutes'  talk  with  your  husband  here  before  I  let  him 
go.  I  will  not  keep  him  longer  than  that,"  replied  the  old 
gentleman  benignly. 


292  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"  Good-night,  then,  uncle,  dear/'  she  said,  raising  his  deli 
cate  hands  to  her  lips. 

"God  bless  you,  my  love,"  he  responded,  drawing  her  to 
him  and  leaving  a  kiss  on  her  forehead. 

"Good-night,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pole  with  a  formal  bow. 

"Good-night,  ma'am,"  replied  Mr.  Cleve,  lifting  his 
skullcap  and  bending  his  head. 

Palma  and  Poley  followed  the  colored  woman  out  of  the 
parlor  into  the  big,  bare  hall,  up  the  broad  stairs  to  the 
upper  hall,  which  was  quite  as  big  and  as  bare. 

It  was  bitterly  cold.  With  a  heavily  wooded  country,  with 
forests  of  pine,  oak,  cedar,  hickory,  chestnut,  poplar  and 
other  timber,  on  the  slopes  and  in  the  valleys,  and  with 
mines  of  coal  among  the  rocks  and  caverns,  it  seemed  yet 
impossible  to  keep  a  country  house  of  that  region  warm  in 
winter.  You  might  keep  certain  rooms  within  it  warm, 
but  not  the  halls  and  passages,  not  the  whole  house,  for  the 
reason  that  they  had  no  system  of  furnaces,  registers,  heat 
pipes  and  so  forth ;  but  then  they  were  considered  all  the 
more  wholesome  on  that  account. 

Nevertheless,  Palma  shivered  and  shook  as  with  an  ague 
when  she  stepped  upon  the  upper  landing  of  the  second 
floor  hall.  It  was  almost  exactly  like  the  hall  below;  four 
bedroom  doors  flanked  it  on  each  side,  and  there  was  a  large 
window  at  each  end,  corresponding  to  the  front  and  back 
door  of  the  under  one. 

Polly  led  them  about  halfway  up  the  hall  toward  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  paused  before  a  door  on  the  right  hand, 
about  midway,  saying : 

"Here  is  yer  room,  ma'am,  and  the  most  comfortablest 
one  in  the  whole  house,  'ceps  'tis  ole  marster's,  which  is 
downstairs,  on  t'other  side  ob  de  hall,  behine  de  parlor,  an' 
befo'  de  kitchen,  and  'tween  'em  bcfe,  is  sort  o'  fended  an' 
warmed,  and  purtected  by  bofe  sides  habbin'  ob  a  big  fire 
into  it,  bofe  day  an'  night." 

She  opened  a  door  and  showed  them  into  a  spacious  cham 
ber,  warmed  and  lighted  by  a  great  fire  of  hickory  logs  in 
the  ample  chimney,  which  was  directly  opposite  the  door  by 
which  they  had  entered.  Tall  brass  andirons  supported  the 
blazing  logs,  an  antique  brass  fender  and  crossed  fire-irons 
secured  the  rich  Turkey  rug  and  the  polished  oak  floor 
from  danger  by  falling  brands  or  flying  sparks;  a  carved 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

oak  mantelshelf  surmounted  the  fireplace  and  supported  an 
oblong  mirror,  with  a  tall  silver  candlestick  at  each  end. 
There  was  a  high  window  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace,  but 
both  were  closed  now,  sash  and  shutter,  and  the  snowy 
dimity  curtains  were  dropped.  At  the  end  of  the  room 
nearest  the  front  of  the  house  stood  a  large,  four-post  bed 
stead,  with  high-tented  tester,  from  which  hung  full,  white 
dimity  curtains  festooned  and  looped  from  ceiling  to  floor. 
Beside  this  white  "marquee"  lay  a  small  Turkey  rug. 

A  chest  of  drawers,  a  walnut  press,  a  corner  washstand 
and  two  easy-chairs  draped  with  white  dimity  completed 
the  furniture. 

"That  little  door,  ma'am,"  said  Polly,  pointing  to  one  in 
the  wall  opposite  the  foot  of  the  bed,  though  a  good  dis 
tance  from  it,  "leads  into  a  d'essin'-yoom,  where  you  can 
also  keep  yer  extry  clothes  and  fings  as  yer  wouldn't  like  to 
clutter  up  yer  bedroom  wid." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Palma,  dropping  into  one  of  the  easy- 
chairs  and  beginning  to  unbutton  her  own  boots. 

"Wait,  ma'am.  Let  me.  Please  let  me.  I'll  just  show 
this  lady  here  to  her  yoom,  and  then  come  and  take  off  your 
shoes  for  you !"  exclaimed  Polly. 

Then  she  put  one  of  her  candles  on  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  retaining  the  other,  turned  to  Mrs.  Pole  and  said : 

"Now,  ma'am,  please  I'll  take  yer  to  your  yoom.  It's 
just  across  the  hall  yere,  right  opposide  to  dis." 

"Thanky,"  replied  Mrs.  Pole.  "I'll  go  and  find  out 
where  it  is,  and  much  obleeged  to  you.  But  then,  dear,  I 
will  come  back  and  stay  long  o'  you  until  Mr.  Stuart  comes 
up." 

"Quite  right,  Poley,  dear,"  replied  Palma,  who  by  this 
time  had  got  her  boots  off  and  her  slippers  out  of  her  hand 
bag  and  onto  her  feet,  and  was  sitting  before  the  fire  with 
her  toes  on  the  top  of  the  fender. 

Polly  took  Mrs.  Pole  across  the  hall  to  the  opposite  room, 
which  as  to  size,  windows  and  fireplace,  was  exactly  like 
that  of  Palma's,  except  that  it  had  a  northern  instead  of 
a  southern  aspect,  and  was,  therefore,  somewhat  colder.  It 
was  also  upholstered  in  curtain  calico  instead  of  white  dim 
ity,  and  had  a  picture  of  the  Washington  family,  instead  of 
a  handsome  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  But  there  was  a 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

fine  fire  burning  which  filled  the  room  with  light  and 
warmth. 

"Now,  ma'am,  if  JQT  want  anything  as  I  can  get 
you—  -"  began  Polly ;  but  Mrs.  Pole  interrupted  and  dis 
missed  her. 

"No;  thank  you.     Good-night,"  she  said. 

And  Polly  left  the  room. 

Pretty  soon  Mrs.  Pole  recrossed  the  hall  and  re-entered 
Palma's  apartment. 

"Has  the  colored  woman  gone  at  last?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  Poley.  But  what  is  the  matter,  dear?  I  do  believe 
you  are  jealous  of  that  poor  creature,"  said  Palma. 

"No,  I  am  not;  but  I  don't  like  to  be  waited  on  and 
fussed  over  so  much.  I  don't  myself !  It  is  all  wrong  and 
on  false  grounds.  They  treat  me  here  just  as  if  I  was  a 

lady  and "  began  Mrs.  Pole,  but  she  in  her  turn  was 

interrupted  by  Palma,  who  said : 

"  Poley,  dear,  they  treat  you  as  a  respectable  woman,  and 
as  they  treat  all  respectable  women — that  is,  all  respectable 
white  women.  You  are  to  be  our  housekeeper  and,  as  such, 
one  of  the  family.  Don't  'kick  against  the  pricks/  Poley, 
dear." 

"I  kick  against  anything?  If  you  knew  the  stiffness  of 
my  joints  through  sitting  so  long  in  the  cars  you  wouldn't 
be  talking  of  me  and  kicking  in  the  same  breath,"  said 
Mrs.  Pole  with  an  injured  air. 

Einging  steps,  attended  by  shuffling  feet,  were  heard  com 
ing  along  the  hall,  and  then  the  voice  of  Cleve  Stuart  say 
ing: 

"That  will  do,  'Sias  !    Thank  you.    Good-night." 

And  the  shuffling  feet  went  back  and  the  ringing  steps 
came  on,  and  the  door  opened  and  Cleve  Stuart  entered 
the  room. 

"Well,  good-night,  dearie,  I'm  gone.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Stuart,"  said  Mrs.  Pole.  And  rising  from  the  second  easy- 
chair  into  which  she  had  thrown  herself  she  nodded  and  left 
them,  regardless  of  Stuart's  good-natured  protestations  that 
she  must  not  let  him  drive  her  away. 

All  our  tired  travelers  "slept  the  sleep  of  the  just"  that 
night. 

As  for  Palma,  she  knew  nothing  from  the  time  her  head 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  295 

touched  her  pillow  until  she  opened  her  eyes  the  next 
morning. 

The  room  was  dark,  or  lighted  only  by  the  red  glow  of 
the  hickory  wood  fire,  and  it  was  silent  but  for  an  occasional 
crackle  of  some  brand  that  was  not  of  hickory,  but  of  some 
more  resinous  wood  that  had  found  its  way  in  among  the 
harder  sort. 

Stuart  was  not  by  her  side,  nor  anywhere  in  the  room. 
Evidently  he  had  got  up  and  dressed  and  left  while  she  still 
slept  soundly. 

Palma  crept  out  of  bed  and  crossed  the  floor  to  open  the 
window,  but  as  she  did  so  the  chamber  door  was  opened 
and  the  younger  of  the  two  negro  women  came  in. 

"'Mornin',  ma'am,"  she  said  brightly,  smiling  and  show 
ing  her  teeth.  "I  was  jes'  waitin'  outside  o'  de  do'  fo'  yo' 
to  wake  up,  to  come  in  an'  wait  on  yo'." 

"You  must  have  good  ears,"  said  Palma. 

"Middlin'.  But  w'en  I  heerd  de  planks  in  de  flo'  creak, 
den  I  knowed  yo'  was  walkin'  across.  I  did  brung  up  a 
pitcher  o'  hot  water  fo'  yo'  an'  put  it  on  de  ha'rf — dar  it  is, 
ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  and  she  stooped  and  took  up  the 
pitcher  and  carried  it  over  to  the  washstand. 

"Tell  me  your  name,"  said  Palma  softly. 

"Hatty,  ma'am,"  replied  the  girl,  smiling  brightly.  And 
when  she  smiled  it  was  with  a  brilliancy  unequaled  in 
Palma's  experience  of  faces.  Hatty's  face  was  of  the  pure 
African  type.  There  was  not  a  drop  of  Caucasian  blood  hi 
her  veins;  but  she  was  of  the  finest  African  type,  with  fine 
crinkling,  silky,  black  hair,  with  glowing  black  eyes,  so 
large,  soft  and  shining  that,  with  varying  phases  they  might 
be  called  black  diamonds,  black  stars,  or — when  half  closed 
with  smiles  or  laughter,  and  veiled  with  their  long,  thick, 
curled,  black  lashes — sunlit,  reed-shaded  pools.  Her  nose 
was  flat;  her  lips  large  and  red,  and  her  teeth  white  as 
ivory.  And  when  she  laughed  she  seemed  to  be  a  natural 
spring  of  mirth  all  by  herself.  And  she  was  almost  always 
laughing,  often  silently.  Few  could  look  on  the  happy  face 
of  the  child  without  smiling  in  response. 

"Well,  then,  Hatty,  I  am  afraid  I  am  late.  I  hope  I  have 
not  kept  anybody  waiting." 

The  girl,  who  had  gone  to  open  the  windows,  turned  and 
answered  shortly: 


296  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Oh,  Lor',  no,  ma'am!  De  birds  deirselves — w'ich  it  is 
de  snowbirds,  I  mean — ain't  been  long  up,  an'  de  sun  hese'f 
hasn'  showed  'bove  de  mount'in,  dough  he's  riz.  See, 
ma'am !" 

She  had  drawn  back  the  curtains  and  pulled  up  the  shade, 
and  now  she  threw  open  the  shutters. 

Palma  came  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

Oh !  what  a  glorious  sight !  Yet,  to  be  graphic,  I  must 
compare  great  things  to  small,  or  st  least  illustrate  the 
former  by  the  latter.  The  house  from  which  she  looked 
seemed  now  to  be  situated  in  the  bottom  of  a  vast,  deep, 
bowl-shaped  valley,  its  colors  now,  in  midwinter,  dark  green, 
with  gleams  of  snow-white,  the  whole  canopied  by  deep 
blue,  flushed  in  the  east  by  opal  shades  of  rose,  gold,  violet, 
and  emerald.  The  mountains  loomed  all  around  in  a  circle 
of  irregular  peaks,  all  thickly  covered  with  pines,  cedars, 
spruce  and  other  evergreen  trees,  which  grew  closest  at  the 
base  and  thinnest  near  the  tops,  which  were  mostly  bare, 
and  now,  in  December,  covered  with  snow. 

Looking  from  the  front  window  of  her  room  Palma  could 
see  but  half  the  circle — the  eastern  half,  made  beautiful  now 
by  the  rising  sun.  The  sun  had  not  yet  come  in  sight ;  but 
even  as  Palma  gazed  he  suddenly  sparkled  up  from  behind 
the  cliffs,  gilding  all  the  opal  hues  of  morning  with  dazzling 
splendor. 

"Oh,  what  a  happiness  to  live  in  a  home  like  this!"  she 
said  to  herself;  "how  good  one  ought  to  be  to  become  half 
worthy  of  it !  Oh,  my  !  oh,  my  !" 

She  heard  voices  speaking  below  her  window.  In  the 
clearness  of  the  atmosphere  she  recognized  them  as  her  hus 
band's  and  his  uncle's. 

The  former  was  saying: 

"Why,  they  are  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you!  They  seem  to 
know  you." 

"Oh,  yes!  they  do." 

And  the  speakers  became  silent. 

"It's  ole  marse,  a-feedin'  ob  de  snowbirds,"  Hatty  ex 
plained.  "Ole  marse  is  jes'  a  angel,  ma'am!  He's  good  to 
eberybody  an'  eberyfing." 

"You  love  your  master  very  much,  then,  Hatty?"  said 
Palma. 

"Lub  him?    Dat  ain't  no  word  for  it!   'Cause,  yo'  see, 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE"  297 

ma'am,  I  lubs  so  many  bodies  an'  so  many  tings,  too,  even 
down  to  red  ribbins  an'  cakes !  But  I  puffickly  'dores  ole 
marse!"  said  the  girl,  smiling  until  her  eyes  closed  and  all 
the  lines  of  her  features  were  horizontal. 

Palma  had  gone  to  the  washstand,  where  now  the  sound 
of  splashing  water  prevented  the  hearing  of  any  talk.  Then, 
while  she  was  drying  her  face  and  neck,  she  said: 

"Run,  Hatty,  and  take  my  traveling  dress  from  the  hook 
in  the  closet,  and  carry  it  out  and  shake  it,  and  brush  it, 
and  bring  it  back  to  me.  I  won't  take  time  now  to  unpack 
my  trunks  to  get  another." 

Almost  before  she  ceased  to  speak  the  girl,  glad  to  serve 
her,  had  darted  into  the  closet,  seized  the  dress,  and  was 
running  off  with  it. 

By  the  time  Palma  had  dried  her  skin  and  dressed  her 
hair  Hatty  was  back  with  the  dark  blue  flannel  suit,  looking 
as  fresh  as  when  it  came  out  of  Lovelace  &  Silkman's  es 
tablishment. 

As  soon  as  Palma  finished  her  toilet  she  hurried  down- 
stanrs  and  was  met  at  the  foot  by  the  aged  master  of  the 
house,  who  had  just  come  in  from  his  bird  feeding. 

He  wore  a  faded,  dark  blue  dressing-gown,  thickly 
wadded,  and  wrapped  closely  about  his  fragile  form.  He 
looked,  if  possible,  fairer,  frailer  and  more  of  a  mere  chrys 
alis  than  ever. 

"Good-morning,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "You  have  slept 
well,  I  know,  and  have  risen  to  a  beautiful  day." 

"Yes,  dear  uncle,  and  opened  my  eyes  upon  a  beautiful 
scene !  Ah !  what  a  happiness  it  is  to  live  in  such  a  lovely 
place!  How  much  I  thank  you  for  bringing  us  to  such  a 
heavenly  place!"  said  Palma,  taking  and  kissing  the  pale 
hand  that  he  had  laid  in  silent  blessing  on  her  head. 

"How  much  I  thank  you  for  coming,  dear  child !" 

"Thank  us  for  coming  into  paradise?" 

"Not  paradise  even  in  summer,  when  it  is  almost  a 
Garden  of  Eden  in  the  dip  of  the  mountains !  But  I  hope 
it  will  be  a  very  happy  home  to  jou  and  yours.  Eemember 
that  you  are  mistress  here,  of  a  house  that  has  not  had  a 
mistress  for  more  than  thirty  years,  when  my  dear  niece, 
your  husband's  mother,  married  and  left  it." 

"No,  but  I  am  your  servant,  uncle — your  servant  and 


298  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

daughter,  whose  duty  and  delight  will  be  to  wait  on  you  and 
minister  to  your  comfort,"  murmured  Palma. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  ma'am,"  said  Polly,  the  elderly  negro 
woman,  opening  the  parlor  door. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Cleve,  drawing  Palma's  arm 
within  his  own  and  leading  her  to  the  room,  where  the  table 
was  waiting  and  a  splendid  fire  was  burning. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Stuart  and  Mrs.  Pole?"  inquired  Palma, 
looking  around. 

"Go  find  them,  Hatty,"  ordered  the  master.  But  as  he 
spoke  Cleve  entered  the  room  by  the  side  door  and  laugh 
ingly  greeted  his  wife  with  the  ironical  question  whether 
she  was  really  "up  for  all  day?" 

"You  should  have  waked  me,"  said  Palma. 

"No,  no,  he  should  not.  I  hold  with  the  Koran  and 
'never  awaken  a  sleeper'  unless,  indeed,  the  occasion  is  suf 
ficiently  important,  which  it  was  not  this  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Cleve  as  they  all  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Pole  came  in,  convoyed  by  Hatty,  who  had  found 
her  upstairs  setting  Palma's  room  in  order,  and  had  taken 
upon  herself  to  instruct  the  good  old  woman  that  "age-able 
ole  white  ladies  didn't  make  up  no  beds  when  there  was 
colored  young  girls  to  do  it  for  'em/' 

When  Mrs.  Pole  had  greeted  the  company  and  taken  her 
seat  the  master  of  the  house  asked  the  blessing  and  break 
fast  went  on. 

After  the  morning  meal  was  ended  and  the  table  cleared 
away  Mr.  Cleve  said  to  Palma : 

"Now,  my  dear,  when  you  feel  disposed  call  Polly  to 
show  you  all  over  the  house.  And  you  will  make  any  alter 
ations  you  see  fit,  choose  any  rooms  that  you  may  prefer 
for  your  private  apartments,  and  make  a  list  of  any  fur 
niture  or  household  utensils  that  you  may  need  or  may 
like,  and  they  shall  be  bought.  There  is  a  good  sleigh  in  the 
carriage  house.  If  you  would  like  to  take  a  drive,  send 
Hatty  to  the  stables  to  tell  Josias  to  clean  it  out  and  harness 
the  horses.  Do  whatever  you  like,  my  child." 

"Thank  you,  dear  uncle.  I  wish  I  knew  what  you  would 
like,  and  that  I  would  do." 

"I  would  like  you  to  be  happy,  my  child." 

"Very  well,  then;  thank  you,  uncle,  I  will,"  exclaimed 
Palma  with  a  light  laugh  as  she  danced  out  of  the  room 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  299 

and  tripped  upstairs  to  her  own  chamber  to  begin  the  work 
of  unpacking  arid  putting  away  her  own  and  her  husband's 
wardrobe,  in  which  she  was  to  be  assisted  by  Mrs.  Pole, 
who  soon  entered  the  room. 

Never  in  her  life  had  Palma  been  so  happy,  so  light- 
hearted,  so  contented  with  the  present,  so  careless  of  the  fu 
ture.  Even  in  her  bridal  days,  sickness  and  the  shadow  of 
death  had  been  about  her  and  had  sobered,  if  it  had  not 
darkened  her  delight.  But  now  every  cloud  was  lifted ;  the 
present  was  full  of  joy,  the  future  full  of  glad  promise,  and 
her  own  soul  overflowing  with  thankfulness  to  the  Lord. 

Mrs.  Pole  was  almost  equally  enchanted. 

"Now,  Poley,  we  have  both  reached  a  haven  of  peace  and 
safety  that  is  like  a  heavenly  rest.  Let  us  be  good  and 
obedient  children  to  our  Father  and  Lord.  That  is  all  we 
can  do  to  show  our  gratitude/'  said  Palma,  who  was  kneel 
ing  by  the  side  of  her  great  sea  trunk,  taking  out  clothing 
piece  by  piece  and  handing  them  to  her  attendant,  who  was 
standing  before  the  bureau  and  who  folded  each  article  in 
turn  and  put  it  away. 

"Darling,"  answered  Mrs.  Pole,  "I  do  not  think  as  ever 
I  did  such  a  good  and  altogether  profitable  day's  work  as  I 
did  that  precious  day  when  I  found  you  too  ill  to  get  out 
of  bed  and  not  a  single  soul  to  take  care  of  you ;  and  when 
I  said  to  myself  as  the  week's  washing  at  Wilton's  would 
have  to  go  with  my  week's  wages  into  the  bargin,  and  to 
morrow  would  have  to  take  thought  for  itself,  according  to 
Scripture,  for  once,  for  I  was  iWnd  to  stop  long  o'  you 
an'  nuss  you.  Lor',  child!  I  haven't  too  often  walked  by 
faith  instead  o'  by  sight,  but  I  did  it  that  once,  and  lo  and 
behold  !  what's  come  outen  it !  We  have  never  parted  from 
that  day  to  this,  and  here  I  am  in  my  old  age  not  only 
comfortable,  but  luxurious  pervided  for." 

"You  'cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters  and  after  many 
days  it  has  returned  to  you,'  "  said  Palma. 

"And,  please  the  Lord,  for  the  futur'  I  do  mean  to  try 
to  be  a  better  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Pole  very  earnestly. 

When  their  task  was  completed  and  everything  was  in 
order,  Palma  dropped  into  an  easy-chair,  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  said: 

"Now,  Poley,  it  is  but  eleven  o'clock,  and  there  are  three 
hours  before  Uncle  Cleve's  early  dinner  at  two,  so,  if  you 


300  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

like,  we  will  send  for  Aunt  Polly — all  the  colored  women 
who  are  past  their  youth  are  aunts,  you  know;  everybody's 
aunts,  Cleve  says — we  will  send  for  Aunt  Polly  and  get  her 
to  show  us  all  over  our  new  little  kingdom,  this  big,  old 
house — its  dining-room,  kitchen  and  pantry,  its  storerooms, 
china  and  linen  closets,  its  chambers,  attics  and  cuddies,  and 
all.  WiJl  you  come,  Poley,  dear?" 

"And  you  tired  to  death  and  out  of  breath  now?  JSTo, 
my  dear.  No.  You  must  not  exert  yourself  one  bit  more 
to-day.  Now  mind  what  I  tell  you,  honey.  It  is  for  your 
good  and  Its !"  replied  Mrs.  Pole,  with  a  solemn  warning 
shake  of  her  head. 

"Very  well,  Poley,  I  will  obey  you.  Cleve  and  uncle  are 
shut  up  in  the  parlor,  talking  business,  I  suppose,  so  I  will 
sit  here  and  sew  until  dinner  time,  or  until  I  am  called," 
said  Palma. 

Mrs.  Pole  got  up  and  went  to  the  shelf  in  the  closet  and 
returned  with  Palma's  workbasket,  in  which  her  sewing 
was  already  neatly  arranged,  and  set  it  down  on  the  floor 
beside  its  owner. 

And  Palma  selected  a  tiny,  half-finished  garment  that 
might  have  fitted  a  medium  doll,  and  began  to  sew  some  lace 
edging  on  it.  And  soon,  in  the  gayety  of  her  heart,  she 
began  to  sing  at  her  work. 

Mrs.  Pole  got  her  own  basket  of  infirm  socks  and  stock 
ings  and  began  to  darn. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

UNCLE  AND  NEPHEW 

WHILE  they  were  so  occupied  Mr.  Cleve  had  closed  the 
parlor  door,  shutting  himself  in  with  his  nephew  for  a  long 
talk  over  their  past  and  present  lives  and  future  arrange 
ments — though  the  earthly  future  of  the  aged  man  would 
necessarily  be  very  brief. 

The  old  gentleman  wished  rather  to  hear  than  to  talk, 
and  so  he  only  briefly  reverted  to  the  main  events  of  his 
own  life — his  early  disappointment  in  love  when  his  be 
trothed  bride  was  taken  ill  and  died  a  few  days  before  their 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  601 

intended  marriage,  and  was  buried  in  her  bridal  drees  on 
her  wedding  day. 

"Yet,  no;  she  was  not  buried,  only  her  left-off  body  was 
buried.  She  lived  !  Oh  !  how  vividly  !  how  blessedly !  how 
potently  she  lives !  And  I  shall  soon  see  her  again !  After 
seventy  years,  my  boy !  after  seventy  years !  But  what  are 
they,  in  view  of  the  life  everlasting?"  eaid  the  aged  man  in 
conclusion  of  this  reminiscence. 

Cleve  Stuart  made  no  reply,  but  pressed  his  uncle's  hand 
in  reverential  silence. 

Then  the  old  man  spoke  of  the  nephews  who  had  borne 
his  own  name  and  expected  to  inherit  his  estate,  but  who 
had  both  died,  unmarried,  of  wounds  received  in  battle. 
Then  he  spoke  of  his  long,  vain  search  of  his  niece's  son, 
Cleve  Stuart,  and  of  the  chance  by  which  he  found  him. 

"And  now,  my  boy,  that  I  have  found  you,  let  me  say 
that  I  find  you  all  that  I  could  wish,  and  your  young  wife — 
charming !  But  tell  me  about  her,  Cleve.  Who  is  she?"  he 
inquired. 

"Palma  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  James  Jordan  Hay 
and  the  granddaughter  of  the  late  John  Hayward  Hay,  of 
Haymore,  in  the  North  Eiding  of  Yorkshire,  England," 
replied  Stuart. 

"Why — indeed  !  I  knew  the  old  squire.  When  I  went  to 
Europe  in  my  young  manhood  I  reached  England  in  the 
autumn,  and  through  a  letter  of  introduction  got  an  invita 
tion  to  Mr.  Storr's,  of  Hoxton,  where  I  stayed  for  the 
Melton  hunts  and  met  Mr.  Hay,  of  Haymore.  Yes,  the 
Hays,  of  Haymore,  are  an  ancient,  historical,  almost,  I 
might  say,  an  illustrious  family.  I  congratulate  you,  my 
boy,  but  more  on  the  personal  merit  of  your  young  wife  than 
on  her  family  connections.  Who  represents  the  house  now 
at  Haymore?  Which  of  the  three  lads  I  found  there?" 

Stuart,  as  briefly  as  possible,  gave  him  the  later  family 
history. 

"What  a  fatality!  All  these  fine  boys  to  pass  away  in 
earnly  manhood !  And  the  son  of  Cuthbert,  the  second 
brother,  you  say,  inherits  the  manor.  I  remember  Cuthbert 
well.  He  was  intended  for  the  church.  They  called  him 
Cuddie.  Now,  tell  me  how  you  came  to  meet  Palma.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  the  youngest  brother,  James,  you  say." 

"Yes;  and  after  the  death  of  her  parents  she  was  adopted 


302  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

by  Judge  and  Mrs.  Barrn,  who  were  my  guardians.  I  met 
Palm  a  in  their  house  when  I  first  went  there  to  live,  and  so 
knew  her  from  her  infancy  up.  I  won  her  pure  affection 
then,  and  never  afterward  lost  it,  thank  Heaven." 

"An  excellent  knowledge  and  a  blessed  beginning.  Now, 
tell  me  how  it  was  you  lost  your  Mississippi  plantation." 

"I  have  not  lost  it.  It  is  legally  mine,  but  of  no  more 
use  to  me  than  would  be  so  many  acres  of  waste  land  in 
Sahara.  The  land  is,  indeed,  a  desert,  and  the  buildings  a 
mass  of  charred  ruins." 

" Through  the  war?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Mansion  house,  stables,  barns,  mills, 
negroes'  quarters  fired  and  burned  to  the  ground ;  stock  all 
driven  off;  negroes  conscripted.  The  place  is  a  ruin  and  a 
wilderness;  it  would  take  many  thousand  dollars  to  re 
claim  it. 

The  old  man  sighed,  but  made  no  reply. 

Then  Stuart  told  him  frankly  of  the  desperate  straits  to 
which  he  had  been  reduced  at  the  time  when  his  uncle's 
letter  came  to  him  so  opportunely. 

Mr.  Cleve  was  shocked. 

"If  I  had  known !    If  I  had  only  known !"  he  said. 

But  in  all  his  narrative  Stuart  never  mentioned  the  name 
or  existence  of  either  Lamia  Leegh  or  Gentleman  Geff.  It 
was  bad  enough,  he  thought,  to  trouble  the  old  gentleman's 
calm  spirit  with  the  tale  of  want ;  but  it  would  have  been 
far  worse  to  have  darkened  and  depressed  it  with  the  story 
of  falsehood  and  treachery. 

The  early  dinner  bell  brought  the  family  together,  and 
around  the  table  were  only  happy  faces.  All  the  painful 
past  was  for  the  time  forgotten. 

The  afternoon  was  beautiful. 

The  large  old  sleigh  was  brushed  out,  lined  with  buffalo 
skins  and  blankets,  and  brought  around  to  the  front  door  by 
two  swift  horses.  And  the  four — Mr.  Cleve,  Mrs.  Pole, 
Stuart  and  Palma — took  a  ride;  the  first  pair  seated  on  the 
back  seat,  the  second  on  the  front  seat,  and  Josias,  the 
coachman,  on  the  box. 

They  took  the  road  that  skirted  the  base  of  the  moun 
tains,  on  the  inside,  and  went  in  a  circle  around  the  planta 
tion.  On  this  road,  under  the  shelter  of  the  mountains, 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  303 

stood  the  negroes'  quarters — log  huts,  large  and  small,  from 
one  room  to  two,  three  or  even  four,  according  to  the  neces 
sities  of  the  occupants.  The  men  and  boys  were  all  away  at 
such  farm  work  as  the  season  permitted,  and  the  women 
were  engaged  in  washing,  ironing,  cooking,  or  carding  and 
spinning  wool.  Their  open  doors  showed  their  occupations, 
and  showed  also  the  bright  pine  wood  fires  that  so  warmed 
their  huts  as  to  permit  these  open  doors. 

The  sleigh  passed  too  swiftly  for  the  party  in  it  to  return 
half  the  nods  and  smiles  with  which  their  passage  was 
greeted. 

"Uncle,"  said  Palma,  "you  appear  to  me  like  a  patriarch 
of  old  living  among  his  tribe." 

"Yes,  dear  child,  with  this  exception — the  patriarchs 
were  men  of  large  families,  with  many  sons  and  daughters, 
and  sons-in-law  and  daughters-in-law,  and  innumerable 
grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren  to  the  third  and 
fourth  generation,  to  rise  up  and  call  them  blessed.  And 
I — have  none." 

"  Oh !  uncle,  dear,  you  have  us.  We  love  you ;  indeed,  we 
do.  And  we  will  serve  you  as  tenderly  and  devotedly  as 
any  children  could." 

"I  know  it,  my  dear;  I  know  it.  And  I  thank  the  Lord 
for  sending  you  to  me." 

"And  I  thank  the  Lord  that  you  let  us  come.  And,  oh ! 
uncle,  I  wish  we  could  multiply  ourselves  into  a  tribe  of 
many  generations  to  serve  and  bless  you." 

"All  in  good  time,  my  little  love;  all  in  good  time,"  said 
the  old  man  with  a  twinkle  in  his  glowing  brown  eyes. 

The  three  miles'  circuit  of  the  road  was  completed,  and 
they  reached  the  house  just  as  the  winter  sun  was  winking 
out  of  sight  behind  the  western  peak. 

"The  first  day  the  ground  will  admit  of  walking  I  shall 
go  on  foot  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  all  your  interesting 
people,  Uncle  Cleve.  I  liked  the  glimpses  I  got  of  them  as 
we  flew  by,"  said  Palma  as  she  gave  her  hand  to  her  hus 
band  and  sprang  out  of  the  sleigh. 

"Yes,  my  child,  so  you  shall,"  replied  the  old  man  as  he 
in  his  turn  alighted  with  the  assistance  of  both  Stuart  and 
Palma.  "So  you  shall,  my  dear.  And  there  are  some  few 
neighbors  and  some  distent  relatives  of  ours  with  whom  you 
must  soon  make  acquaintance." 


804  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Who  are  they,  uncle,  dear?"  inquired  Palma  as  she  en 
tered  the  house  on  the  old  man's  arm,  followed  by  Stuart 
and  Mrs.  Pole,  while  'Sias  drove  the  sleigh  around  to  the 
stables. 

"I  will  tell  you  presently,  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Cleve. 

In  the  hall  Palma  laid  off  her  fur  cloak  and  hood  and 
gave  them  to  Hatty  to  take  upstairs.  Stuart  helped  his 
uncle  off  with  his  overcoat  and  muffler. 

When  they  had  all  returned  to  the  oak  parlor,  where  the 
great  fire  had  been  replenished,  and  were  seated  around  the 
hearth  enjoying  the  glow,  and  while  Polly  was  passing  in 
and  out  setting  the  tea  table,  Mr.  Cleve  said : 

"WTe  have  no  very  near  relations  left  in  this  world.  We 
who  sit  here  are  the  nearest  of  kin  to  each  other.  Still,  you 
know,  Virginians  are  as  clannish  as  highlanders." 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  remember  that  much  of  my  beloved 
mother.  No  matter  how  distant  the  relationship  or  how 
humble  or  even  unworthy  the  individual,  my  dear  mother 
always  held  sacred  the  claims  of  kindred.  My  poor  father, 
who  was  not  so  clannish,  used  to  laugh  at  her  a  little  and 
ask: 

"  'Why  do  you  not  take  in  all  the  human  race  at  once, 
since  all  are  sons  and  daughters  of  our  first  parents,  and 
brothers  and  sisters  of  ourselves  T  " 

"Well,  he  was  right,"  commented  the  old  man. 

"But  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  uncle.  You  were 
speaking  of  our  kindred  in  this  country,  and  we  are  anxious 
to  hear  of  them." 

"Well,  my  boy,  there  are  the  Gordons,  of  Gordondell; 
they  are  our  third  cousins,  and  live  about  seven  miles  south 
of  this  on  the  Staunton  road.  They  are  a  large  family  of 
three  generations,  living  in  one  house;  but  they  are  all 
Gordons.  Then  there  are  the  Bells,  of  the  Elms ;  only  two, 
a  bachelor  brother  and  maiden  sister,  living  on  their  little 
place  just  beyond '  Wolf swalk.  And  the  Clydes,  my  dears, 
who  live  in  the  village,  and  keep  a  general  store.  There  is 
a  young  father  and  mother  and  half  a  dozen  children.  That 
is  all.  They  are  all  more  or  less  injured  by  the  war,  and 
are  poor,  and — some  of  them — somewhat  embittered  by 
their  losses;  but  they  are  our  kindred,  and  we  must  have 
them  all  here  to  meet  you  in  the  coming  Christmas  holi 
days." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  305 

"Tea  is  on  the  table,  ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

And  the  party  left  the  fireside  and  gathered  around  the 
table. 

The  sleigh  ride  had  given  them  all  fine  appetites,  and 
they  enjoyed  their  repast. 

After  it  was  over,  and  the  evening  worship  was  offered 
up,  the  little  family  separated  and  retired  to  rest. 

And  so  ended  the  first  day  at  Wolfscliff;  the  first,  also, 
of  many  happy  days. 

The  cousins  did  not  wait  to  be  invited.  The  news  of  ^  the 
new  arrival  at  the  Hall  was  soon  spread  through  the  neigh 
borhood  by  the  negroes,  and  neighbors  and  relatives  lost  no 
time  in  calling  on  the  young  pair. 

And  yet  these  were  not  so  truly  calls  as  visits,  for  when 
any  one  came  to  the  house  they  arrived  in  the  morning  to 
stay  all  day  and  take  dinner  and  tea.  They  expected  this, 
and  it  was  also  expected  of  them. 

The  very  first  to  come  were  the  Gordons,  who  arrived 
early  in  the  morning  a  few  days  before  Christmas.  They 
came  in  a  big  ox  cart,  and  filled  it.  There  was  old  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gordon,  an  ancient  couple  nearly  ninety  years  of  age, 
bowed,  shriveled  and  white-haired,  yet,  withal,  right  merry  ; 
and  their  bachelor  brother  and  maiden  sister,  Mr.  Tommy 
and  Miss  Nancy  Gordon,  as  aged  and  as  merry  as  them 
selves;  then  there  was  the  son  and  daughter,  Col.  and  Mrs. 
George  Gordon,  both  stout,  rosy  and  full  of  the  enjoyment 
of  this  life,  and  their  middle-aged  bachelor  brother  and 
maiden  sister,  Mr.  Henry  and  Miss  Rebecca  Gordon.  And 
there  were  seven  young  men  and  three  young  women  be 
tween  the  ages  of  fifteen  and  twenty-seven.  But,  really,  it 
would  take  up  too  much  time  and  space  to  tell  you  all  their 
names  and  ages  and  characters.  They  were  a  happy,  rollick 
ing  set  of  young  people. 

They  had  not  been  much  hurt  either  in  mind,  body  or 
estate  by  the  war,  and  were  neither  depressed  nor  embit 
tered. 

Then  came  the  two  old  folks  from  the  Elms.  And,  finally, 
the  Clydes,  from  the  village. 

And  besides  these,  neighbors  came ;  old  families  who  had 
been  in  the  land,  as  the  Cleves  had,  from  the  first  settle 
ment  by  the  English — the  Hills,  the  Ords,  and  the  Balls — 
all  of  whom  lived  within  ten  miles  of  Wolfscliff. 


306  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

And  all  of  these  kinsfolks  and  neighbors  were  warmly 
welcomed  at  Wolf scliff,  and  well  liked  by  Cleve  and  Palma. 

Christmas  brought  its  usual  festivities  at  the  home,  but 
also  a  snowstorm  that  commenced  on  the  morning  of  Christ 
mas  Eve  and  continued  all  day  and  all  night  and  all  the 
next  day,  covering  the  ground  two  feet  deep,  and  toward 
the  close  of  the  second  day,  when  the  wind  rose,  drifting  in 
places  several  yards  deep. 

This  made  it  impossible  for  the  families  at  Wolfscliff  to 
leave  the  house;  but  Mr.  Cleve  held  service  in  the  large 
drawing-room,  where  all  his  people  from  the  plantation,  as 
well  as  the  members  of  his  household,  were  collected. 

And  when  the  service  was  over  Christmas  gifts  were  dis 
tributed,  mostly  in  articles  of  clothing,  to  the  servants.  To 
Palma  he  gave  a  casket  of  pearls  and  rubies  that  had  been 
his  mother's ;  to  Stuart  he  gave  a  fine  horse,  with  new  saddle 
and  bridle,  that  he  had  within  a  few  days  past  purchased 
from  a  neighbor. 

Cleve  and  Palma  gave  to  him  an  olive-green  velveteen 
dressing-grown  and  skullcap  to  match,  which  they  had  pur 
chased  for  this  very  purpose ;  and  to  the  servants  each  they 
gave  a  piece  of  gold  coin,  having  nothing  else  to  offer  them. 
And  then  the  congregation  dispersed  joyfully. 

The  snowstorm  continued,  with  a  high  wind.  The  con 
templated  dinner  party  for  the  twenty-seventh  had  to  be 
given  up.  The  state  of  the  road  made  travel  impossible  for 
several  days. 

One  of  the  first  expeditions  abroad  was  made  by  Josias, 
who,  mounted  on  a  stout  mule,  tried  to  reach  the  post  office 
at  Wolfswalk.  It  took  him  all  day  to  go  and  come,  but  he 
succeeded,  and  late  in  the  evening  brought  back  letters  and 
parcels  that  had  been  forwarded  from  New  York  to  the 
Stuarts — letters  and  parcels  that  bore  the  London  and  the 
Haymore  postmarks.  The  first  were  from  the  London  so 
licitors  of  the  Hays,  of  Haymore,  and  contained  the  infor 
mation  that  certain  railway,  mining  and  manufacturing 
shares  had  been  transferred  from  the  name  of  Randolph 
Hay  to  that  of  Palma  Hay  Stuart,  and  were  at  her  disposal, 
and  included  the  bonds — for,  after  all,  self-indulgent  Will 
Walling  had  decided  not  to  take  the  long  journey  to  the 
mountains  of  Virginia  in  the  midst  of  winter,  but  to  for- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  307 

ward  the  documents  by  mail,  and  without  even  an  explana 
tory  letter  from  himself. 

"  I  think  you  will  have  no  trouble  in  finding  the  funds  for 
the  reclamation  of  your  Mississippi  estate."  said  John  Cleve 
with  a  smile  as  he  received  the  information  which  Stuart 
seemed  proud  and  glad  to  give  him.  "Your  wife's  cousin 
is  a  noble,  generous  fellow.  Whom  did  ho  ™orrv?" 

Cleve  Stuart  was  for  a  moment  dumfounded  bv  the  ques 
tion.  He  had  not  so  far  risen  above  conventionality  as  not 
to  feel  much  embarrassment  in  replying. 

"Miss  Judith  Man,  of  California,"  answered  Palma,  on 
seeing  that  Stuart  had  found  nothing  to  say. 

"Ah!    Who  was  she?"  next  inquired  Mr.  Cleve. 

"The  best,  the  noblest,  the  loveliest  girl  I  ever  met  with 
in  my  life !"  warmly  responded  Palma. 

"Ah  !  that  is  well,  very  well !  Of  what  family  was  she?" 
persevered  the  old  gentleman,  who  was  completely  uncon 
scious  of  the  embarrassment  his  questions  were  causing. 

"I  really  do  not  know,  uncle,  dear,"  answered  Palma. 

"I  do  not  think  we  ever  inquired,"  replied  Stuart,  speak 
ing  at  last. 

"Ah !  well,  it  does  not  matter,  so  that  she  is  a  good,  true 
girl,  worthy  of  the  noble  young  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Cleve. 

"She  is  all  that,  uncle,"  said  Stuart. 

Palma  and  Stuart  then  opened  their  letters.  They  were 
from  Ran  and  Judy,  telling  them  of  their  arrival  at  Hay- 
more,  their  reception  of  Gentleman  Geff  and  his  "lady," 
and,  indeed,  of  all  the  events  that  transpired  in  the  first  few 
days  of  their  stay  at  the  Hall,  and  of  which  our  readers 
are  already  informed;  making  no  mention  of  the  transfer 
of  stocks  from  Ran  to  Palma ;  but  renewing  and  pressing 
their  invitation  that  the  Stuarts  <vould  visit  them  in  Eng 
land  during  the  next  summer.  Of  course,  Ran  and  Judy  at 
the  time  of  writing  their  letter  had  not  heard  of  Cleve  and 
Palm  a' s  removal  to  West  Virginia. 

Palma  was  so  little  a  worshiper  of  Mammon  that  she  was 
much  more  delighted  with  the  faithful  affection  revealed  in 
these  letters  than  with  the  accession  of  fortune  that  accom 
panied  them. 

She  flew  upstairs  to  answer  them.  She  was  earnest  in  her 
thanks  for  Ran's  magnanimity  in  giving  her  so  noble  a 
share  in  their  grandfather's  fortune ;  but  she  was  even  more 


308  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

earnest  in  her  appreciation  of  Judy's  friendship  and  their 
mutual  invitation  to  herself  and  Cleve.  She  had,  however, 
to  explain  why  neither  of  them  could  take  advantage  of  tho 
offered  opportunity  of  visiting  their  friends  in  England,  by 
telling  them  of  her  own  and  her  husband's  change  of  resi 
dence  and  new-found  happiness  in  the  country  home  of 
their  aged  uncle,  and  of  the  impossibility  that  they  should 
leave  him  while  his  presence  on  earth  should  be  spared  to 
them. 

Cleve  Stuart  also  answered  Ban's  letters  in  very  much 
the  same  strain,  giving  the  same  thanks  with  much  depre 
cation,  and  offering  the  same  explanations. 

These  letters  were  all  taken  to  the  post  office  the  next 
morning. 

In  another  week  the  weather  moderated  and  the  snow 
melted.  But  traveling  was,  if  possible,  more  difficult  than 
before,  for  the  roads  were  sloughs  of  mud. 

But  within  doors,  at  Wolfscliff,  all  was  pleasant,  com 
fortable  and  happy. 

Only  Mrs.  Pole  complained  of  having  too  little  to  do. 
But  her  special  grievance  did  not  last  very  long,  for 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourteenth  of  February  Palma 
Stuart  received  from  Above,  in  trust  for  earth  and  heaven, 
a  most  precious  valentine,  in  the  form  of  a  pair  of  twins, 
a  fine  boy  and  girl.  And  no  more  grateful  and  delighted 
mother  dwelling  on  the  "footstool"  that  day  raised  her 
heart  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving  to  the  Throne. 

No  prouder  father  lived  than  Stuart,  no  happier  uncle 
than  John  Cleve,  nor  more  important  nurse  than  Mary 
Pole.  She  had  enough  to  do  now,  both  day  and  night,  to 
nurse  mother  and  babes. 

On  the  very  first  visit  Stuart  was  allowed  to  make  at  the 
bedside  of  his  wife,  when  he  had  kissed  her  with  deep  feel- 
in?,  and  had  admired  the  twins  to  his  heart's  content,  she 
said  to  him : 

"Cleve,  dear,  of  course  our  boy  must  be  named  John 
Cleve,  after  dear  uncle  and  yourself.  But  our  little  girl? 
Will  you  please  ask  uncle  if  he  will  let  us  call  her  Clarice, 
after  his  own  dear  angel  love?" 

"Well  thought  of,  darling.  I  know  he  will  be  pleased. 
I  will  ask  him  as  soon  as  I  go  downstairs/'  warmly  re 
sponded  Cleve  Stuart. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  300 

"And  you  must  go  now,  sir,  if  you  please.  She  must  be 
quiet  and  go  to  sleep  if  she  can,"  said  Mrs.  Pole  from  the 
eminence  of  her  new  authority. 

Stuart  meekly  bowed  his  head  and  obeyed. 

The  result  of  Palma's  proposal  was  this":  Early  in  the  af 
ternoon,  when  she  had  had  a  good  sleep,  had  awakened  and 
taken  refreshment,  and  was  resting  in  peace  and  bliss,  the 
old  gentleman  came  quietly  into  the  room,  sat  down  beside 
her,  and  said  softly: 

"I  thank  you,  my  dear.  May  the  Lord  bless  you,  and 
may  He  bless  your  dear  babes — little  Clarice  and  John." 


CHAPTEE  XXXII 

AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE 

SPRING  opens  early  on  the  southwestern  section  of  Vir 
ginia,  and  leaves,  flowers  and  birds  come  soon. 

Palma  and  her  babies  were  out  with  the  violets  and  the 
bluebirds.  And  no  one  could  have  more  enjoyed  the  beau 
tiful  weather  in  this  glorious  scene  than  the  city-bred  girl. 

Even  in  April,  the  cup-shaped  vale,  shut  in  by  green- 
wooded  mountains,  seemed  a  Garden  of  Eden,  or  the  fairy 
"Valley  of  Calm  Delights." 

Stuart  had  taken  to  agricultural  life  as  to  his  native  ele 
ment,  and  often  declared  his  delight  in  it,  and  expressed  his 
wonder  how  he,  the  descendant  of  a  hundred  generations  of 
farmers,  could  have  been  contented  to  live  in  a  city. 

Directly  after  breakfast  every  morning  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  out  afield  to  look  after  the  laborers.  Cer 
tainly,  much  of  the  theory  and  praetice  of  farming  he  had 
to  learn  from  his  uncle;  but  he  was  an  apt  pupil.  So  apt, 
he  said  to  Palma,  that  his  learning  seemed  to  him  more 
like  the  recollection  of  forgotten  knowledge  than  the  acqui 
sition  of  new  ideas. 

Palma,  for  her  part,  loved  to  put  her  two  babies  in  the 
double  perambulator  that  had  been  brought  from  the  near 
est  town  for  their  use,  and,  attended  by  Hatty,  wheel  them 
out  to  the  road  that  ran  around  the  vale  and  was  dotted  with 
.  the  log  huts  and  little  gardens  of  the  negroes  on  the  side 


310  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

next  to  the  mountain.  This  was  like  a  royai  progress. 
Everywhere  the  young  mother  and  children  were  greeted 
with  joy  by  the  colored  women  and  girls  in  the  cabins. 

On  week  days  none  but  women  and  children  could  be 
found  there ;  all  the  men  were  afield. 

On  Sunday  they  would  all,  or  nearly  all,  go  to  church; 
and  it  was  a  strange  thing  that  a  little  community,  num 
bering  less  than  one  hundred,  men.,  women  and  children  all 
counted,  should  include  so  many  religious  sects;  for  here 
were  to  be  found  Catholics,,  Episcopalians,  Presbyterians, 
Methodists  and  Baptists.  I  think  that  was  all;  for  of  finer 
sub-divisions  of  doctrine  or  opinion  they  knew  nothing,  and 
a  more  Christian  community  than  the  people  of  this  planta 
tion,  notwithstanding  ther  sectarian  dfferences,  could  scarce 
ly  be  found  anywhere.  And  this  was  owing,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  the  teachings  and  example  of  their  master — a 
pure  Christian. 

He  was  accustomed  to  say  to  them : 

"By  whatever  sectarian  name  you  choose  to  call  your 
selves  matters  little ;  be  Christian.  'The  disciples  were  called 
Christians  first  at  Antioch/  Tor  there  is  no  other  name 
under  heaven  given  among  men  whereby  we  must  be  saved 
but  that  of  Christ/  " 

Old  'Sias  being  asked  one  day  by  a  stranger  as  to  his 
religious  faith  and  experience  answered  that  he  was  Chris 
tian,  and  his  law  of  life  was  love  of  God  and  his  neighbor. 

The  people  loved  their  master  well.  Not  one  left  him 
when  emancipation  was  proclaimed.  Even  the  young  men, 
who  longed  to  see  life,  would  not  leave  old  master  while  he 
should  live  on  earth. 

Old  Cleve  was  the  friend,  teacher  and  patriarch  of  his 
people. 

Never  in  his  life,  however,  had  the  old  man  been  so 
happy  as  at  present.  The  society  of  Stuart,  Palma  and  their 
babies  opened  new  springs  of  joy  in  his  heart  and  home. 
He  loved  to  spend  hours  reclining  in  his  easy-chair  on  the 
piazza,  with  the  young  mother  seated  near  him  and  the 
infants  in  their  pretty  basket  cradle  beside  her,  while  Mrs. 
Pole  would  be  looking  after  household  affairs  within,  and 
Stuart  would  be  supervising  agricultural  matters  afield. 

The  twins  were  little  more  than  two  months  old  when 
Uohn  Cleve  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a  growing  likeness  be- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  311 

iween  the  tiny  Clarice  and  the  angel  for  whom  she  was 
named.  As  for  him,  he  was  waiting  the  call  to  come  and 
rejoin  his  own  Clarice  in  one  of  the  many  mansions  of  our 
Father's  house. 

Nor  was  the  summons  long  delayed. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  May. 

The  vale  was  more  like  than  ever  to  a  Garden  of  Eden. 
It  was  a  chalice  full  of  bloom,  fragrance  and  music  lifted 
up  in  offering  to  Heaven. 

Stuart  was  absent  on  horseback,,  riding  from  field  to  field, 
overlooking  the  workmen. 

All  the  other  members  of  the  family  were  gathered  on  the 
front  porch. 

Mrs.  Pole,  with  a  pair  of  shears  in  her  hands,  was  walking 
about  the  place,  carefully  clipping  a  few  dead  leaves  from 
the  rose  vines  that  climbed  about  the  pillars.  She  had  taken 
to  gardening  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  Stuart  had  taken 
to  farming. 

Palma  sat  on  a  little,  low  chair,  busy  with  her  needle 
work.  At  her  feet  stood  the  pretty  basket  cradle  in  which 
lay  the  twin  babes,  sleeping. 

Near  them  sat  John  Cleve,  reclining  in  a  large  resting- 
chair.  His  hands  were  folded  before  him,  and  he  was 
gazing  out  upon  the  scene  with  a  face  illumined  by  rever 
ence  and  serene  rapture.  Not  a  word  had  he  spoken  since 
the  babies  went  to  sleep.  Now  he  murmured : 

"  Oh !  the  beauty  and  the.  glory  of  Thy  sunlit  earth  and 
heavens,  our  Father. 

The  words  seemed  to  issue  involuntarily  from  the  lips  of 
the  speaker  in  the  midst  of  the  deep  silence. 

"Oh!  the  loveliness  of  Thy  celestial  angels!"  he  mur 
mured  in  a  lower  and  a  slower  tone. 

Palma.  looked  up  from  her  sewing. 

He  did  not  speak  again. 

She  turned  around  to  look  at  him. 

He  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair  and  shrunken  together. 
His  hands  lay  folded  on  his  knees,  his  head  bowed  on  hie 
chest,  and  his  silver  hair  shining  in  the  morning  sunlight. 
His  face  could  not  possibly  be  whiter  than  it  had  always 
been  since  she  had  known  him,  but  something  else  in  his 
aspect  startled  and  alarmed  her. 


312  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

She  sprang  up  and  went  to  him,  bent  over  him,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Uncle  !  Uncle !"  she  said  softly  but  eagerly,  anxiously — 
"Uncle!" 

"Don't  distress — yourself,  dear — it  is  all  right — bless 
you." 

These  were  his  last  words.  His  whole  slight  frame  seemed 
to  collapse  and  shrink  closer  together,  his  head  sank  lower, 
his  hands  slipped  apart  and  dropped  down  by  his  sides. 

When  Mrs.  Pole,  startled  by  some  sound,  hurried  to  the 
spot,  she  found  Palma  in  a  panic  of  grief  and  amazement 
too  deep  for  utterance,  standing  over  the  lifeless  body  of 
the  good  old  man. 

Mrs.  Pole  in  great  emergencies  had  but  little  self-posses 
sion. 

She  threw  up  her  hands  in  horror,  and  then  ran  wildly 
in  and  out  of  the  house,  shrieking : 

"Polly!    Hatty!    'Sias;" 

And  as  the  frightened  servants  came  running  at  her  call, 
the  women  from  the  kitchen,  the  man  from  the  lawn,  they 
found  the  young  mistress  down  on.  the  floor  at  the  feet  of 
the  dead  master,  with  her  hands  clasped  around  his  knees 
and  her  head  bowed  upon  them,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
must  break.  Tears  had  come  and  broken  the  trance  of 
sorrow. 

"Run  for  the  doctor !  Run  for  Mr.  Stuart !  Run  all  of 
you!"  cried  Mrs.  Pole. 

And  the  servants  ran  in  all  directions  to  spread  the  news 
or  to  bring  efficient  help. 

Mrs.  Pole  went  to  Palma. 

"Get  up,  my  dear  child  !    Let  me  help  you  up." 

"Don't — don't,"  gasped  Palma  in  a  smothered  tone. 

"Come,  come  with  me,"  persisted  the  woman,  taking  hold 
of  her  arm  and  trying  to  lift  her. 

"Leave  me  !  Leave  me  !"  cried  the  mourner,  clinging  the 
closer  to  her  dead,  and  continuing  obdurate  to  all  entreaty. 

Cleve  Stuart,  found  and  summoned  by  'Sias,  soon  came 
galloping  up  to  the  house,  threw  himself  off  his  horse  and 
hurried  up  on  the  porch. 

One  look  of  awe,  sorrow  and  reverence  to  the  changed 
face  of  his  uncle  showed  him  what  had  happened.  Then  he 
looked  on  his  wife. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  313 

"Make  her  get  up,  sir.  Do  make  her  get  up.  I  can't 
get  her  to  move  from  that !"  sobbed  Mrs.  Pole. 

"When  did  this  happen?"  inquired  Stuart  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Not  twenty  minutes  ago,  I  reckon,  though  I'm  not  sure. 
It  was  as  quick  as  lightning.  One  moment  he  was  talking 
bright  and  cheerful,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  gone  like 
a  flash  !  Oh  !  make  her  get  up,  sir.  She  will  kill  herself." 

"Palma,  dear,  you  must  let  me  take  you  in,"  he  said,  lay 
ing  his  hand  gently  on  the  bowed  head  of  his  wife. 

But  sobs  were  her  only  reply. 

"Palma,,  we  will  have  to  take  him  in  and  lay  him  on  his 
bed.  Come  with  me  first." 

But  she  only  wept  and  sobbed. 

With  gentle  force  he  took  her  arms  from  around  the  dead, 
lifted  her,  bore  her  into  the  parlor,  laid  her  on  the  sofa  and 
called  Polly  to  attend  her. 

He  returned  to  the  porch,  told  Mrs.  Pole  to  look  after  the 
babies  and  leave  everything  else  to  him,  and  called  the  grief- 
stricken  'Sias  to  help  him  to  carry  the  dead  into  the  house. 

It  was  a  very  light  weight  for  so  tall  and  broad-shoul 
dered  a  man,  but,  then,  it  was  but  little  more  than  skin  and 
bone,  a  human  chrysalis. 

They  bore  it  to  the  chamber  in  the  rear  of  the  parlor  on 
the  ground  floor,  that  had  been  John  Cleve's  sleeping-room. 
Here  they  laid  it  on  the  bed  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
family  physician.  The  latter  could  do  no  good,  but  all  the 
same  he  must  come. 

Not  until  afternoon  could  the  busy  country  doctor,  whose 
practice  extended  over  many  miles,  be  found  and  brought  to 
Wolfscliff. 

He  was  conducted  by  Stuart  to  the  room  of  death. 

"A  death  from  old  age,  pure  and  simple,"  was  the  verdict 
of  science. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  body  more  thoroughly  consumed  by 
the  life  of  the  spirit  ?  I  have  known  Mr.  Cleve  all  my  life, 
as  my  father  and  my  grandfather  knew  him  before  me,  and 
I  never  knew  of,  or  heard  of,  his  having  a  day's  illness," 
concluded  Dr.  Osborne  as  they  sat  together  beside  the  bed. 

"He  was  a  saint  prepared  for  heaven,"  reverently  replied 
the  young  man. 

Then  they  arose,  and  standing  on  each  side  of  the  bed, 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

drew  the  sheet  up  over  the  calm,  cold  face  and  left  the  room 
together. 

The  doctor  went  away,  kindly  offering  to  transact  any 
business  that  was  now  required  for  the  family  and  for  the 
deceased  at  Wolfswalk. 

Stuart  went  to  inquire  about  the  condition  of  his  wife. 

Polly  had  put  her  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  Pole  had  laid  her 
sleeping  infants  in  with  her,  the  one  on  her  right  side  and 
the  other  on  her  left.  They  were  the  best  sedatives,  for  the 
tender  mother  was  obliged  to  control  herself  for  fear  of 
disturbing  them. 

Mrs.  Pole,  now  as  quiet  and  decorous  as  in  the  morning 
she  had  been  noisy  and  turbulent,  sat  in  a  large  easy-chair, 
watching  the  three. 

As  Stuart  softly  opened  the  door  she  raised  her  finger 
in  warning,  and  then  silently  arose  and  went  to  him. 

"She  has  just  fallen  asleep  herself.  I  wouldn't  speak  to 
her  now,  if  I  was  you.  She  is  sleeping  very  quiet,"  she 
said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Thank  Heaven!  Take  care  of  her,  Mrs.  Pole,"  mur 
mured  Cleve  in  a  low  tone  as  he  withdrew. 

Mrs.  Pole  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  resume  her 
watch. 

Three  days  later  the  mortal  body  of  John  Cleve,  of  Wolfs- 
cliff,  was  borne  to  the  family  burial  ground  on  the  plateau 
on  one  of  the  hills  that  looked  up  to  the  sky.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  great  concourse  of  people,  consisting  of  kindred, 
friends,  servants  and  neighbors  from  far  and  near. 

The  services  were  concluded  there,  with  these  few  words 
of  such  divine  love  and  truth  that  I  quote  them  here  for  the 
comfort  they  may  give  to  all  sorrowing  souls  who  grieve 
because  they  think,  and  think  wrongly,  that  they  have  laid 
their  loved  ones  in  the  grave. 

The  minister  said : 

"  'And  now,  having  performed  the  last  service  of  love  to 
our  dear  brother  by  laying  his  body  in  the  earth  from  which 
it  came,  we  leave  it  there,  as  he  has  left  it,  to  follow  him 
by  faith  to  his  eternal  home/  9- 

Will  my  leaders  note  the  use  of  the  pronouns  there? 
There  is  deep  meaning  in  that. 

After  the  obsequies,  life  went  on  very  calmly  at  Wolf s- 
clifL 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  315 

Stuart  and  Palm  a  wrote  every  week  to  their  friends  in 
England,  and  quite  as  often  got  letters  from  them. 

Again  Ran  and  Judy  urged  Stuart  and  Palma  to  come 
and  visit  them,  as  there  was  nothing  now  to  keep  the  latter 
at  Wolfscliff.  They  wrote  that  they  had  given  up  their  plan 
of  leaving  Haymore  Hall  to  study  in  London.  That  the 
attractions  of  the  country  and  the  home  were  so  great  that 
they  could  not  tear  themselves  away  from  it.  That  they 
had  formed  attachments  not  only  to  the  place,  but  to  the 
people.  That  they  should  remain  there,  and  that  the  Rev. 
James  Campbell  had  undertaken  to  direct  their  studies,  and 
they  expected  to  derive*  quite  as  much — if  not  more — benefit 
from  his  instructions  as  they  could  from  professional 
teachers. 

The  correspondence  resulted  in  a  promise  from  the 
Stuarts  to  run  over  to  England  after  the  wheat  harvest 
should  be  gathered. 

It  was  while  Stuart  was  thinking  of  setting  a  certain  day 
for  their  embarkation  and  purchasing  their  tickets  that  a 
strange  visitor  arrived  at  Wolfscliff. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  in  the  latter  part  of  June. 

Stuart  was  afield,  looking  after  the  wheat. 

Palma  was  seated  on  the  front  piazza,  with  her  babies 
placed  face  to  face  in  their  cradle  on  her  right  hand,  and 
her  workbasket,  overflowing  with  work,  on  her  left. 

She  was  singing  to  herself  in  a  low  key  when  she  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  walk. 

Looking  up,  she  saw  the  hack  from  the  Wolf shead  tavern, 
at  Wolfswalk,  approaching.  It  drew  up  before  the  porch. 

The  coachman  got  off  his  box  and  went  to  the  carriage 
door  and  opened  it. 

A  gentleman  got  out — a  tall,  thin  man  of  about  forty 
years  of  age,  with  dark,  reddish-brown  hair  and  beard. 

Palma  laid  aside  her  work  and  stood  up  to  receive  the 
visitor. 

He  came  up  the  steps  of  the  piazza,  stopped,  raised  his 
hat,  and  as  he  looked  at  the  childlike  young  matron  before 
him,  said  with  some  hesitation : 

"Mrs. — Stuart?  Have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Mrs. 
Stuart?" 

"That  is  my  name,  sir,"  replied  Palma  politely. 


316  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

He  bowed  and  handed  her  a  Card,  on  which  she  read: 
"The  O'Melaghlin,  Carrick  Arghalee,  Antrim,  Ireland." 

"Will  you  come  into  the  house,  sir?  Mr.  Stuart  is  not 
here  at  present,  hut  he  is  not  far  off,  and  I  will  send  for 
him  at  once,"  said  Palma,  leading  the  way  into  the  hall 
and  touching  a  call-bell  as  she  passed  a  stand. 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  the  stranger,  following  her. 

She  conducted  him  into  the  drawing-room,  gave  him  a 
seat  and  turned  to  speak  to  Hatty,  who  had  come  in  answer 
to  the  bell. 

"Ask  Mrs.  Pole,  please,  to  go  to  the  children  on  the 
piazza.  Then  send  ?Sias  to  look  for  Mr.  Stuart,  to  tell  him 
that  there  is  a  gentleman  here  waiting  to  see  him,  and  give 
him  this  card,"  said  Palma,  putting  the  slip  of  pasteboard 
into  the  girl's  hands. 

"Is  'Sias  for  to  gib  dis  to  young  marster?"  inquired 
Hatty,  dubiously. 

"Yes,  certainly.  Go  away  now  and  do  your  errands.  Go 
to  Mrs.  Pole  first,"  said  the  anxious  young  mother.  And 
then  she  sat  down  near  the  front  window,  through  which, 
from  time  to  time,  she  could  glance  out  and  see  that  no 
harm  should  come  to  the  babies  until  the  arrival  of  her  re 
lief  sentinel,  Mrs.  Pole. 

Palma  was  not  very  well  versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
yet  she  felt  it  incumbent  on  her  to  entertain  the  stranger, 
but  she  did  not  exactly  know  how  to  do  it. 

"You  are  recently  from  Ireland.  I  have  some  very  dear 
friends  of  that  country.  Indeed,  my  nearest  kinsman  mar 
ried  a  young  girl  of  that  nation." 

"Yes;  I  am  aware  of  that  fact.  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  mar 
ried  Miss  Judith  Man — that  brings  me  here  to-day.  But 
as  for  myself,  I  have  not  seen  Ireland  for  twenty-one  years/' 
said  the  stranger. 

Palma  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"I  have  been  in  California,  Colorado,  Australia,  Tas 
mania,  Cape  Colony — everywhere  else  but  in  my  native 
land,"  continued  the  visitor. 

Palma  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"And  I  came  last  from  California,"  concluded  the 
stranger. 

Palma  suddenly  remembered  that  it  was  rude  to  stare  in 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  317 

silence  at  any  one,  especially  at  a  visitor  in  one's  own  house ; 
so  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  said  demurely : 

"I  am  glad  you  knew  Judith  Man,  Mrs.  Randolph  Hay, 
of  Haymore,  my  cousin  by  marriage." 

"I  don't  know  her  at  all.  All  the  same,  she  is  my  daugh 
ter — my  only  daughter — and  I  hope  to  find  her  soon,  with 
your  assistance,  and  to  make  her  acquaintance.  It  is  for 
that  purpose  that  I  am  here,"  said  the  stranger. 

Now  Palma  stared  in  right  good  earnest,  without  once 
thinking  whether  she  was  rude  or  not.  Moreover,  she  com 
mitted  another  breach  of  good  manners — she  echoed  his 
words : 

"Your  daughter !"  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment  and  in 
credulity.  "I  never  did  hear  of  such  a  thing!" 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  visitor,  laughing  good-hum- 
oredly;  "but  it  is  true,  nevertheless.  And,  besides,  there 
are  a  great  many  million 

"  'More  things  in  heaven  and  earth' 

than  you  ever  did  hear  of,  or  ever  will  hear  of,  my  dear 
young  lady." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  but  indeed  I  was  so  taken  by  sur 
prise!"  said  Palma,  apologetically,  and  with  a  pretty  blush. 

"Not  at  all !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  rather  irrelevantly. 
"Say  no  more  about  it;  but  tell  me  something  of  my  son 
and  my  daughter.  You  said  nothing  about  my  son,  yet  I 
have  been  told  that  they  are  both  equally  and  intimately 
well  known  to  you  and  to  your  excellent  husband.  What 
are  these  young  people  like,  madam,  if  you  please?" 

"Mike  and  Judy  ?  They  are  both  lovely  !  Just  lovely !" 
warmly  responded  Palma. 

"  That  is  exceedingly  complimentary,  and  would  be  highly 
satisfactory,  only  it  is  not  Quite  exact  enough.  A  rose  is 
lovely,  so  is  a  pearl,  so  is  a  fawn,  so  is  a  baby." 

"Oh,  yes!"  exclaimed  the  young  mother. 

"  So  many  things  are  lovely,  you  see,  that  to  say  they  are 
lovely  gives  me  no  clear  idea  of  them.  Be  more  precise, 
dear  lady." 

"Oh,  then,  they  are  so  good,  so  sweet — but  I  think  I  had 
better  show  you  their  photographs,"  said  Palraa,  with 
den  inspiration. 


318  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"The  very  thing!"  exclaimed  the  visitor. 

Pa] ma  sprang  up  and  ran  like  an  eager  child  to  the  other 
end  of  the  drawing-room  and  to  an  ctagcre  that  stood  in 
the  corner,  and  took  from  it  a  large-paged  but  thin  photo 
graph  album,  with  which  she  returned  to  her  visitor. 

"This  book,"  she  said,  "contains  only  the  pictures  of  our 
dearest  friends.  There  are  not  more  than  thirty-three  pic 
tures  in  the  collection ;  but  then  there  are  in  some  cases 
several  of  each  person.  I  will  show  yon  Mike's  and  Judy's." 

"Xo!"  exclaimed  the  visitor.  "Pray  let  me  have  the 
book  and  see  if  I  can  find  them  for  myself.  I  have  never 
seen  them.  You  are  naturally  amazed  to  hear  me  say  that, 
but  you  shall  know  the  reason  of  the  fact  in  good  time," 
said  The  O'Melaghlin,  as  he  received  the  book  from  Palma, 
who,  having  placed  it  in  his  hands,  resumed  her  seat, 
watched  him  as  he  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  speculated 
with  much  interest  whether  he  would  be  able  to  identify  the 
pictures  of  his  son  and  daughter,  whom  he  had  never  seen. 

Presently  his  face  lighted  up. 

"Here  they  are !"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  open 
pages  that  presented  full-length  cabinet  photographs  of 
Mike  and  Judy — the  former  being  on  the  left-hand  page 
and  the  latter  on  the  right. 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  replied  Palma  in  surprise;  "but 
how  could  you  tell?" 

"Because  this,"  he  replied,  laying  his  finger  on  Judy's 
picture,  "is  a  perfect  likeness  of  my  dear  lost  Moira;  and 
this,"  he  added,  indicating  Mike's,  "is  as  like  her  as  a  youth 
can  be  like  his  mother." 

"They  are  faithful  likenesses  of  the  twin  brother  and 
sister,"  replied  Palma. 

"Now  tell  me,  my  dear  young  lady,  about  my  boy  and 
girl." 

"Your  daughter,  I  have  said,  is  sweet  and  good  and  very 
dear  to  us  all  who  know  her.  To  say  that  she  is  married 
to  one  of  the  wealthiest  land  owners  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  Yorkshire  would  be  true,  but  it  would  not  be 
so  much  as  to  say  that  her  husband  is  one  of  the  best,  the 
truest,  the  most  generous  and  most  magnanimous  of  men." 

"Your  praise  is  enthusiastic,  therefore  extravagant." 

"It  could  not  be.    Ask  Judy  herself." 

"Ask  a  young  woman  still  in  love !    She  would  be  a  very 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  319 

impartial  witness,  no  doubt,"  laughed  The  O'Melaghlin. 
"But  now  about  my  boy?" 

"He  is  altogether  worthy  of  his  sister  and  his  brother-in- 
law.  I  could  not  say  any  more  for  him  than  that." 

"Which  is  to  say  that  he  is  good,  true  and  brave," 

"Yes,  he  is  all  that." 

"But  his  objects  in  life?" 

"To  be  of  the  best  use  to  any  whom  he  may  serve;  and 
the  better  to  do  this,  he  wishes  to  get  a  good  education." 

"  Quite  right !  And  he  is  young  enough  still  to  go  to 
college,  not  being  quite  twenty  years  of  age." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  for  his  sake  that  you  have  come  for 
ward  ;  because  Michael  has  that  spirit  of  independence  that 
he  shrinks  from  being  indebted  to  his  good  brother-in-law 
for  his  college  fees." 

"Quite  right  is  that  also.  He  is  a  true  O'Melaghlin,  and 
I  am  proud  of  him !  And  now,  my  dear  young  lady,  you 
may  be  wondering  how  I  discovered  yourself  and  your  hus 
band  and  your  connection — happy  connection  for  them — 
with  my  children." 

"It  has  been  equally  happy  for  us,  sir,  indeed.  Michael 
and  Judith  are  among  our  most  esteemed  friends." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  dear  madam." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  KINGLY  O?MELAGHLINS 

AT  this  moment  Cleve  Stuart  so  quietly  entered  the  room 
that  Palma  was  not  aware  of  his  entrance  until  he  stood 
before  her. 

"Mr.  O'Melaghlin — Mr.  Stuart,"  she  said,  presenting  the 
gentlemen  to  each  other. 

The  visitor  arose  and  both  bowed. 

"I  bring  a  letter  of  introduction  for  you,  sir,  from  the 
Messrs.  Walling  Of  .New  York,"  said  The  O'Melaghlin, 
drawing  from  his  breast  a  neat,  open  envelope  and  handing 
it  to  Mr.  Stuart. 

Cleve  took  it  with  a  bow. 

On  the  envelope,  besides  the  superscription — "To  Cleve 


32Q  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Stuart,  Esq.,  Wolfscliff,  W.  V.," — there  was  written  between 
brackets,  in  the  corner:  "To  introduce  The  O'Melaghlin, 
Carrick  Arghalee,  Antrim." 

Now,  the  use  of  the  definite  article  as  the  prefix  of  a 
man's  surname  had  been  a  puzzle  to  Palma.,  and  even  a  sur 
prise  to  Cleve,  though  he  remembered  that  in  the  north  of 
Ireland,  as  well  as  in  Scotland,  it  was  affected  by  certain 
heads  of  families  among  the  landed  gentry  of  ancient  line 
age,  and  considered  to  outrank  either  plain  "Mr."  or 
"Squire."  O'Melaghlin,  therefore,  must  be  recognized  as 
The  O'Melaghlin. 

"With  your  permission,"  said  Stuart,  with  a  bow,  as  he 
opened  the  letter,  which  was  as  follows — and  rather  more 
than  sarcastic  in  its  peculiar  style,  as  Cleve  thought  when 
he  read  it,  though  he  hoped  and  believed  that  the  bearer 
of  the  letter  had  not — if  he  had  read  the  words — perceived 
the  sarcasm: 

"OFFICE  OF  WALLING  &  WALLING,  Att'ys,  Etc. 
"New  York,  May  8,  187—. 

"CLEVE  STUART,  ESQ.,  Wolfscliff,  W.  V. :  I  have  the  great 
honor  to  present — you — to  The  O'Melaghlin,  of  Carrick  Ar 
ghalee,  Antrim,  Ireland. 

"The  O'Melaghlin  is  of  the  most  ancient  Irish,  royal 
lineage,  being  directly  descended  from  the  O'Melaghlins, 
monarchs  of  Meath,  whose  kingdom  was  ravaged  by  Henry 
the  Second,  A.  D.  1173,  and  given  to  one  of  his  thievish 
followers,  a  disreputable  carpet-bagger,  called  Hugh  de 
Lacy. 

"The  O'Melaghlin  hails  now  from  Antrim  because  his 
ancestor,  Patricious  O'Melaghlin,  in  the  reign  of  Edward 
the  First,  1285,  married  Mona,  sole  child  and  heiress  of 
Fergus  of  Arghalee,  and  subsequently  became  lord  of  Car 
rick  Arghalee,  in  right  of  his  wife.  From  this  illustrious 
pair,  representing  a  royal  and  a  noble  family  united,  The 
O'Melaghlin  is  directly  descended. 

"It  would  be  highly  impertinent  in  so  humble  an  individ 
ual  as  myself  to  write  of  this  gentleman's  merits  and  accom 
plishments.  Should  he  honor  you  with  his  acquaintance, 
you  will  discover  them  for  yourself.  You  will  also  hear 
from  him  in  what  manner  you  can  have  the  distinction  of 
serving  him. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"With  compliments  and  congratulations  to  yourself  and 
Mrs.  Stuart  on  the  present  proud  occasion,  I  remain,  your 
faithful  servant,  WILLIAM  WALLING." 

"Will  Walling  is  a  scamp,  and  merits  a  kicking  for  his 
impudence,"  was  Stuart's  half-earnest,  half-jesting  mental 
criticism  on  this  letter  and  its  writer.  He  thought  he  knew 
the  reason  for  Will  Waiting's  sneers ;  he  thought  it  was  more 
than  likely  that  The  O'Melaghlin  had  repelled  the  genial 
Will  and  "kept  him  at  a  distance."  He  folded  the  letter, 
put  it  in  his. pocket,  and  one©  more  offered  his  hand  to  the 
visitor,  saying : 

"I  am  very  happy  to  see  you  here,  sir,  and  shall  be  very 
much  pleased  if  I  can  serve  you." 

"I  thank  you,  Wolfscliff !"  exclaimed  The  O'Melaghlin, 
giving  his  host  his  territorial  title  as  if  they  had  been  in  An 
trim.  "I  thank  you,  sir.  You  have  given  me  the  hand  of 
a  friend,  and  although  you  may  not  at  this  moment  recall 
the  fact,  you  have  given  me  the  hand  of  a  kinsman !  Yes, 
sir,  I  am  proud  to  say  of  a  kinsman!"  and  he  gave  that 
hand  a  grip  that  crippled  it  for  a  week. 

"A  kinsman,  O'Melaghlin !"  exclaimed  Cleve — he  would 
have  given  great  offense  if  he  had  addressed  his  guest  as 
Mr.  O'Melaghlin — "I  am  very  much  flattered,  but  I  do  not 
understand !" 

"Ah,  then,  Wolfscliff,  is  not  your  family  name  Stuart?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  have  you  not  a  lawful  right  to  that  name?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"And  do  you  not  spell  it  S-t-u-a-r-t ?" 

"I  do." 

"Then  you  are  my  kinsman  on  the  distaff  side!  Yes, 
there  is  but  one  root  of  the  tree  of  Stuart,  and  that  is  the 
old  royal  root  that  grew  fast  in  Scottish  ground,  and  every 
one  who  lawfully  bears  the  name*  of  Stuart  is  a  leaf  of  that 
same  tree." 

"Granted,"  said  Cleve,  with  perhaps  a  faint  leaven  of  sin 
ful  pride,  "granted  that  my  ancestor  seven  generations  back 
was  Charles  Stuart,  called  the  Young  Pretender,  how'  should 
that  make  us  kinsmen?" 

"I  am  afraid,  young  Wolfscliff,  that  you  do  not  keep  your- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

self  well  posted  up  in  your  family  genealogy,"  said  The 
O'Melaghlin. 

"Indeed  I  do  not,"  replied  Stuart,  with  a  laugh.  "I  fear 
I  know*  little  or  nothing  with  certainty  of  my  family  on 
either  side  the  house  previous  to  their  emigration  to  Amer 
ica.  Why,  O'Melaghlin,  do  you  know  if  I  could  become  a 
candidate  for  the  highest  office  in  this  country-,  and  knew 
who  was  my  grandfather,  it  would  be  a  grave  objection  to 
me  in  the  minds  of  this  democratic  and  republican  people 
— unless,  indeed,  I  could  prove  that  he  was  a  tramp,  a 
gjpsy?  or,  at  the  very  best,  a  day  laborer!" 

The  O'Melaghlin  stroked  his  long,  rusty  red  beard  and 
slowly  shook  his  head. 

"The  human  race  is  going  to  ruin,"  he  said. 

"But  will  you  kindly  explain  how  it  is  that  we  are  of  kin, 
sir?"  said  Palma  hesitatingly. 

"Surely,  my  dear  young  lady — surely.  The  facts  are 
these :  From  prehistoric  ages,  in  the  dark  before  the  dawn 
of  time  or  of  its  record,  to  which  the  memory  of  mankind 
goeth  not  back.  The  O'Melaghlins  were  monarchs  of 
Munster." 

"And  lived  in  caves,  and  dressed  in  skins,  and  when  a 
young  king  wanted  a  wife  he  walked  into  the  next  kingdom 
with  his  club  on  his  shoulders,  knocked  down  the  first  young 
girl  he  saw  and  brought  her  away  on  his  back.  Was  it  not 
so?"  archly  suggested  Palma. 

"  Faith !  I  think  you  are  right,  ma'am.  Since  the 
O'Melaghlins  go  back  to  the  darkest  of  days,  they  must 
have  had  the  manners  of  the  same,"  said  the  chieftain,  good- 
humoredly. 

"Well,  please  go  on.  I  will  try  not  to  interrupt  you 
again." 

"  The  O'Melaghlins  were  monarchs  of  Meath  for  unnum 
bered  generations  before  the  Christian  era,  and  for  eleven 
centuries  and  a  half  after.  Somewhere  about  the  year  1160 
Henry  the  Second — bad  luck  to  the  beast ! — made  the  con 
quest  of  Ireland,  ravaged  the  kingdom  of  Meath,  and  gave 
the  land  to  a  thieving  carpet-bagger  of  his  own,  Hugh  de 
Lacy  by  name.  Ah !  but  The  O'Melaghlins,  turned  out  of 
their  own,  made  short  work  of  the  usurper  and  murdered 
him  in  his  stolen  castle  of  Thrim.  It  was  of  no  avail.  Sis 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  323 

successors  came  after  him,  backed  up  by  the  power  of  the 
Saxon.  The  O'Melaghlins  were  scattered  far  and  wide." 

"One  of  the  tragedies  of  history/'  said  Stuart. 

"  True  for  you,  O'Wolf scliff !  The  next  memorable  apoch 
in  the  history  of  that  r'yal  family  fell  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  the  First,  in  the  year  1270,  more  than  a  century 
after  the  conquest  of  Meath.  Then  the  young  head  of  the 
family — The  O'Melaghlin  of  that  apoch — married  the  Lady 
Mona,  sole  child  and  heiress  of  Fergus  of  Arghalee,  sur- 
named  the  Tiger,  and  in  due  time,  in  right  of  his  wife,  suc 
ceeded  to  the  chieftainship  and  became  The  O'Melaghlin  of 
Carrick  Arghalee  !  That,  sir  and  madam,  was  the  first  step 
taken  toward  a  union  with  the  r'yal  house  of  Scotland,  from 
which  you,  sir,  descinded." 

(The  chieftain,  when  interested  or  excited,  sometimes 
slipped  into  dialect.) 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Stuart,  rather  mystified,  for  he  did 
not  as  yet  see  the  road  to  the  roval  alliance. 

"Now  then,"  continued  The  O'Melaghlin,  "that  marriage 
was  the  first  step,  as  I  said.  Nearly  two  centuries  passed 
before  the  second  step  was  taken.  But  then,  centuries  don't 
count  for  much  with  old  historic  families  whose  origin  is 
only  lost  in  the  ancient,  prehistoric  ages.  It  was  in  the  year 
1380,  in  the  reign  of  Robert  the  Second,  King  of  Scotland, 
that  Randolph  of  Arghalee  married  the  Lady  Grauch, 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Fife,  who  was  the  second  son  of  the 
reigning  monarch.  D'ye  moind,  that's  where  the  r'yal  blood 
comes  in,  and  our  kinship,  more  betoken !  So  shake  hands 
upon  it.  Wolf  scliff." 

Stuart  good-humoredly  put  out  his  hand,  already  half 
crippled  by  O'Melaghlin's  first  clasp,  and  received  a  second 
crushing  grip. 

"And  now  will  you  kindly  inform  me  how  I  can  be  of 
service  to  you  ?"  inquired  the  host. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  certainly.  I  wish  to  find  my  children, 
Michael  and  Judith.  I  was  told  by  Mr.  Walling  that  you 
would  be  able  to  give  me  their  exact  address,  which  he  said 
was  in  London  somewhere,  but  he  could  not  tell  where." 

While  The  O'Melaghlin  spoke  Stuart  stared  and  Palma 
laughed.  She  felt  a  child's  delight  at  his  astonishment  in 
discovering  that  The  O'Melaghlin  was  the  father  of  Michael 
Man  and  Judith  Hay. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Oh!"  said  the  visitor,  "you  are  surprised,  sure,  to  hear 
me  say  this,  but  they  are  my  children,  for  all  that  I  have 
never  set  eyes  on  them  in  my  life.  It  was  not  my  fault, 
but  the  fate  made  by  circumstances,  that  kept  us  apart.  It 
it  a  painful  story,  sir,  that  I  may  tell  you  later  at  your  con 
venience.  ISTow  I  wish  to  ask  you  where,  in  all  the  great 
wilderness  of  London,  I  may  find  my  children." 

"Nowhere  in  London.  They  are  not  there.  They  have 
changed  their  plans,  and  will  remain  for  some  time  to  come 
at  Haymore  Hall." 

"  Surely  I  thought  they  were  going  to  London  for  private 
tuition." 

"They  can  obtain  that  better,  perhaps,  at  Haymore." 

"Ay?" 

"Perhaps,  O'Melaghlin,  you  would  like  to  see  your  daugh 
ter's  last  letter  to  my  wife,"  kindly  suggested  Stuart. 

"Ay,  that  I  would,  if  Mrs.  Stuart  has  no  objections,  and 
it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  offer  to  show  it  to  me,  and  I  thank 
you,  Wolfscliff,"  heartily  responded  the  visitor. 

And  before  he  had  finished  speaking  Palma  had  darted 
away  in  search  of  her  letter  box.  She  soon  returned  with 
it,  sat  down,  placed  it  on  her  lap,  opened  it  and  took  out 
a  bundle  of  letters,  from  which  she  selected  one  to  hand  it  to 
the  visitor. 

He  quickly  snatched  it,  and  with  an  almost  greedy  look, 
so  eager  was  the  father  to  read  the  words  of  his  unknown 
daughter. 

He  "devoured"  the  contents  of  that  letter,  though  none 
of  its  words  could  speak  of  him,  who  was  equally  unknown 
to  his  daughter,  and  although  they  only  told  of  household 
and  neighborhood  news,  and  of  their  changed  plans  in  re 
gard  to  the  scene  of  their  studies  and  the  person  of  their 
tutor. 

When  he  had  dwelt  on  the  letter  as  long  as  possible  he 
returned  it  to  its  owner  with  manifest  reluctance  and  cast 
covetous  glances  at  the  pile  of  letters  from  which  it  had 
been  drawn. 

"Would  you  like  to  read  all  your  daughter's  letters? 
You  can,  of  course,  if  you  wish  it,  sir,"  said  Palma  kindly. 

"Oh,  madam,  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  do 
so,"  gratefully  replied  the  father. 

"Here  they  are,  then,  about  twenty  of  them  in  all,  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  325 

they  are  long  letters.  Take  them  and  read  them  at  your 
leisure.  Now  there  is  the  dinner  bell.  You  will  join  us,  I 
hope." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  madam;  but  I  am  just  off  a  long 
journey,  and  hardly  persentable  in  a  sitting-room,  much  less 
at  a  dinner  table,"  said  The  O'Melaghlin,  glancing  down 
at  his  dusty  garments. 

"Oh,  never  mind.  We  are  plain  country  people,"  said 
Palma,  with  a  smile ;  for  having  lived  in  a  crowded  city  all 
her  life,  with  the  exception  of  one  short  season  at  "Lull's," 
she  took  pride  in  thinking  of  herself  as  a  country  woman. 

"If  you  would  like  to  go  to  a  room  to  brush  off  a  little, 
I  should  be  pleased  to  show  you  the  way,"  said  Stuart. 

"Thank  you,  Wolfscliff,  I  think  I  would  if  it  will  not 
delay  your  dinner  or  spoil  your  soup.  Now  speak  frankly. 
There  should  be  candor  among  kinsmen." 

"It  will  spoil  nothing,"  put  in  Palma,  knowing  that 
Cleve  could  not  answer  that  question,  "so,  Mr.  Stuart, 
please  show  The  O'Melaghlin  to  the  oak  room." 

Cleve  turned  with  a  bow  to  his  guest  and  led  the  way 
out. 

Palma  rang  the  bell  and  gave  orders  that  the  soup  should 
be  kept  back  for  fifteen  minutes. 

In  due  time  The  O'Melaghlin  reappeared  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  small  party  went  in  to  dinner. 

In  the  course  of  that  meal  Stuart  said  to  Palma: 

"My  dear,  The  O'Melaghlin  has  kindly  promised  to  re 
main  with  us  a  few  days,  and  has  sent  back  his  chaise  to  the 
Wolfshead  to  fetch  his  baggage." 

"I  am  very  much  pleased  to  hear  this,"  said  Palma,  turn 
ing  with  a  bright  smile  to  the  visitor. 

"  Thank  you,  madam !  You  may  wonder,  perhaps,  why 
I  should  have  chosen  to  travel  all  the  way  down  from  New 
York  to  West  Virginia  to  get  from  you  the  London  address 
of  my  children,  when  I  might  have  written  to  you  and  got 
it  by  return  mail." 

"No ;  indeed,  I  never  once  thought  of  it  in  that  manner." 

"Well,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  how  it  was.  When  I  learned 
from  Mr.  Walling  that  my  children  were  in  London,  I  de 
termined  to  go  there  as  soon  as  possible.  And  knowing  what 
a  rush  there  is  across  the  big  pond  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
I  went  to  get  my  passage  secured  in  the  first  available 


326  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

steamer.  But,  bless  you !  though  I  went  to  every  office  of 
ocean  steamers  in  New  York,  and  wrote  to  every  one  in 
Boston,  I  could  get  no  sort  of  a  passage  in  any  one  for  the 
next  six  weeks.  The  first  one  I  could  engage  was  for  the 
first  of  July,  in  the  steamer  Leviathan  for  Southampton." 

"Why !  Are  you  going  by  the  Leviathan ?  We  are  going 
by  that  ship !"  impulsively  exclaimed  Palma. 

"You  are!"  cried  The  O'Melaghlin,  appealing  to  Stuart. 

"Indeed  we  are!"  responded  the  latter. 

"Delight  upon  delight!  That  is  almost  too  good  to  be 
true !  Well,  I  am  overjoyed  to  hear  this !  Now  to  resume 
my  explanation  why  I  came  to  you  instead  of  writing: 
Finding  that  I  had  three  weeks  upon  my  hands  I  said  to 
myself:  fl  will  not  write  to  get  meager  news.  I  will  go 
down,  to  West  Virginia  and  see  these  near  connections  of  my 
unknown  children,  and  I  will  talk  with  them  and  get  from 
them  every  detail  of  my  son's  and  daughter's  lives  and  char 
acters.'  And  so  here  I  am." 

"And  now  that  you  are  here,  O'Melaghlin,  we  hope  that 
you  will  stay  with  us  until  the  day  comes  when  we  must 
all  leave  Wolfscliff  for  New  York  to  embark  on  our  voyage/' 
said  Stuart. 

The  visitor  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  on  the  lady'? 
face. 

"Oh,  yes,  do,  Mr.  O'Melaghlin.  We  should  be  so  happy 
to  have  you !"  she  exclaimed,  in  response  to  that  mute  ap 
peal. 

"You  do  me  much  honor,  sir  and  madam.  And  to  be 
frank  with  you,  there  is  nothing  on  my  part  to  prevent 
my  acceptance  and  enjoyment  of  your  kindness  and  hospi 
tality,"  replied  The  O'Melaghlin  in  modest  words,  but  with 
a  pompous  manner. 

Palma  then  withdrew  and  left  the  two  men  over  their 
claret,  and  went  to  put  her  babies  to  bed.  When  this  sweet 
duty  was  done  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  she 
was  soon  joined  by  Stuart  and  O'Melaghlin. 

And  there,  later  in  the  evening,  the  latter  told  his  story. 
It  was  the  common  story  of  a  race  of  men  and  a  fine  estate 
falling  into  decadence  from  generation  to  generation.  Thi* 
The  O'Melaghlin,  in  telling  the  tale,  attributed  to  the  mis 
fortunes  of  the  family,  and  the  persecutions  of  the  Saxon. 
But  to  those  who  could  read  between  the  lines,  even  of  his 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  327 

version,  it  was  self-evident  that  the  downfall  of  the  house 
was  due  to  the  vice  and  folly  of  its  representatives. 

Few  men  in  the  position  of  The  O'Melaghlin  would  tell 
such  a  story  with  perfect  frankness.  Certainly  he  did  not 
so  tell  his.  And  therefore  it  seems  necessary,  in  the  in 
terests  of  truth,  that  it  should  be  told  by  me. 

With  the  exception  of  those  absurd  traditions  of  the  pre 
historic  period  of  which  no  one  can  know  anything,  the 
proud  family  record  of  The  O'Melaghlins,  previous  to  their 
degradation,  was  in  the  main  true,  as  every  student  of  Irish 
history  knows.  But  for  a  century  past  The  O'Melaghlins 
of  Arghalee  had  been  fast  livers,  hard  drinkers  and  reck 
less  sinners.  In  every  generation,  every  succeeding  heir  had 
come  into  his  patrimony  pooper  in  purse,  prouder  in  spirit, 
and  weaker  in  will  to  resist  evil  than  any  of  his  predecessors. 

At  length,  about  twenty-five  years  before  the  period  of 
which  I  write,  young  Michael  O'Melaghlin,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  came  into  the  remnant  of  the  grand  old  estate, 
consisting  then  of  the  half-ruined  castle  of  Arghalee  and 
a  few  acres  of  sterile  land  immediately  around  it. 

He  was  the  last  of  his  family,  and  would  have  been  alone 
in  the  world  but  that  he  loved  and  was  beloved  by  a  good 
and  beautiful  girl,  well  born,  like  himself ;  an  orphan,  like 
himself;  poor,  like  himself,  and  even  poorer,  since  she  had 
not  so  much  as  a  ruinous  house  and  an  acre  of  ground. 

Moira  MacDuinheld  lived  with  distant  relatives  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Arghalee. 

They  were  not  kind  to  her ;  they  grudged  her  the  cost  of 
her  maintenance;  and  when  young  Michael  O'Melaghlin 
came  courting  her,  they  encouraged  his  suit  that  they  might 
get  rid  of  their  burden;  and  they  let  him  marry  her,  al 
though  they  knew  they  were  delivering  her  to  poverty  and, 
privation,  if  to  nothing  worse. 

Michael  then  married  Moira  with  the  full  consent  of  her 
kindred,  and  took  her  home  to  his  dilapidated,  rat-infested, 
raven-haunted,  storm-beaten  old  donjon  keep,  which  was  all 
that  was  left  of  the  castle  of  Arghalee. 

But  soon  the  young  pair  began  to  suffer  the  bitterest 
pangs  of  poverty.  We  cannot  go  into  detail  here.  Let  it 
be  sufficient  to  say  that  often  they  had  not  enough  to  eat, 
even  of  the  plainest  food.  But,  although  "poverty  had  come 
in  at  the  door,  love  did  not  fly  out  of  the  window,"  for  they 


328  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

loved  each  other  more  faithfully,  because  more  pitifully, 
for  all  their  privations  and  sufferings.  And  here  comes  in 
the  insanity  of  pride.  Both  Michael  and  Moira  were  strong, 
healthy,  able-bodied  young  people,  and  could  each  have  ob 
tained  work  in  the  neighborhood ;  Michael  as  a  farm  laborer, 
if  nothing  more — and  he  could  have  done  little  more,  for 
he  had  but  very  little  education,  and  Moira  might  have  be 
come  a  laundress — a  trade  easily  acquired.  But  for  an 
O'Melaghlin — a  descendant  of  the  ancient  monarchs  of 
Meath — to  work  !  No !  In  the  narrow,  one-idea  mind  of 
the  impoverished  chieftain  it  was  more  noble  to  starve  and 
to  see  his  young  wife  starve,  or  to  accept  alms,  and  deem  the 
bestower  to  be  highly  honored  in  being  permitted  to 
minister  to  the  needs  of  The  O'Melaghlin. 

But  hunger  is  a  mighty  factor  in  the  affairs  of  life.  It 
is  said  to  have  civilized  the  world.  At  least  it  exercised 
a  very  powerful  influence  upon  these  two  healthy  young 
people,  who  were  almost  always  hungry,  seldom  having 
enough  of  oatmeal  or  potatoes  on  any  day  to  satisfy  their 
robust  appetites.  And  when  they  had  suffered  this  hunger 
for  several  months,  and  saw  nothing  but  hunger  in  all  the 
future,  The  O'Melaghlin  suddenly  resolved  to  sell  all  the 
remainder  of  his  land,  except  one  acre  upon  which  his 
ruined  tower  stood — the  oldest,  as  it  was  also  the  only  part 
of  the  great  castle  now  in  existence — and  with  the  money 
he  might  get  for  them  go  with  his  young  wife  to  the  gold 
fields  of  California.  There,  in  the  far-off  foreign  land, 
where  he  would  not  be  known,  he  would  seek  for  the  gold 
that  should  restore  the  fortunes  of  his  family.  Upon  whom 
soever  the  gold  fever  fastens  it  fills  with  a  furore. 

Gold  was  The  O'Melaghlin's  thought  by  day  and  his 
dream  by  night.  Gold  seeking,  he  persuaded  himself,  was 
not  work — or  at  least  it  was  not  work  for  hire ;  and,  besides, 
he  would  be  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land;  and  no  one  at 
home  here  in  Antrim  should  ever  be  able  to  say  that  The 
O'Melaghlin  had  ever  soiled  his  hands  or  blotted  his 
'scutcheon  with  labor ! 

He  sold  four  acres  of  his  land  for  little  more  than  enough 
money  to  take  himself  and  his  wife,  by  way  of  Glasgow, 
to  San  Francisco.  He  was  offered  nearly  twice  as  much 
money  if  he  would  sell  the  remaining  acre  with  the  ancient 
tower  upon  it. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  329 

But  at  the  proposal  The  O'Melaghlin  grew  furious  and 
insolent. 

What !  Sell  the  very  donjon  keep,  the  last  stronghold  of 
The  O'Melaghlins  of  Arghalee?  Many  a  time  had  the 
Saxons  besieged  the  castle,  and  sometimes  they  had  taken 
the  outworks,  but  never  the  donjon  keep.  And  now  he 
would  see  their  island  scuttled  in  the  midst  and  sunk  be 
tween  its  four  seas,  like  the  rotten  old  craft  that  it  was,  be 
fore  he  would  sell  his  tower  and  the  last  acre  of  ground  on 
which  it  stood. 

Though  why  this  jeremiad  should  have  been  uttered 
against  "the  Saxon,"  when  it  was  an  Irishman  and  a  near 
relative  who  wanted  to  buy  his  old  owl  roost,  no  one  but 
The  O'Melaghlin  himself  could  have  explained. 

His  dream  was  to  realize  a  fabulous  fortune  from  the 
gold  fields  and  come  back  and  restore  the  tower,  rebuild  the 
castle  and  repurchase  all  the  land  sold  by  his  forefathers 
for  generations  past.  To  do  all  this  would  require  a  vast 
fortune;  but  would  he  not  make  that  fortune? 

Heaven  and  earth!  Did  not  many  a  common  bit  of 
human  clay  without  family  or  name  of  the  least  value  make 
a  large  fortune  in  the  gold  fields  ?  When,  then,  The  O'Me- 
laghlin  stooped  to  seek  the  ore,  would  not  the  earth  open 
wide  her  bosom  of  uncounted  treasures  and  lavish  gold  upon 
him? 

The  O'Melaghlin  never  doubted  for  an  instant  that  she 
would. 

So  in  due  time  The  O'Melaghlin  and  his  wife  sailed  from 
Glasgow,  bound  for  San  Francisco. 

They  went  in  the  first  cabin  of  the  0 olden  Glory.  Do 
you  think  The  O'Melaghlin  would  take  second  place  in  any 
circumstances  ?  No,  he  would  die  first ! 

When  they  reached  San  Francisco  he  took  a  room  for 
himself  and  wife  at  one  of  the  very  best  hotels,  which  was 
also,  of  course,  one  of  the  most  expensive  in  the  city. 

He  gave  his  name  to  the  office  clerk  as : 

"The  O'Melaghlin,"  which  that  hurried  and  distracted 
individual  incontinently  put  down  as: 

T.  0.  Mannikin. 


330  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

CHAPTER  XXXIV 

PARENTAGE  OF  MIKE  AND  JUDY 

THE  young  pair  had  been  in  the  city  only  a  few  days 
when,  after  diligent  inquiries  in  all  possible  directions, 
O'Melaghlin  heard  a  rumor  of  a  rich  new  field  of  gold  in  the 
Black  Rock  Ridges,  some  fifty  miles  from  the  city,  and  of 
a  party  of  adventurers  about  forming  to  start  for  that  point. 

O'Melaghlin  determined  to  join  that  expedition. 

His  young  wife,  Moira,  was  much  too  delicate  just  at  this 
time  to  accompany  him. 

He  left  her  at  the  hotel  with  nearly  all  the  little  money 
he  had  to  bear  her  expenses  during  his  absence,  which  he 
promised  should  be  as  short  as  possible. 

He  said  he  would  come  back  to  see  her  about  the  time 
she  might  be  able  to  return  with  him. 

Then  he  went  away,  and  Moira  remained  at  the  hotel. 

It  seemed  a  cruel  act  so  to  leave  a  young  wife,  who  was 
expecting  within  four  or  five  weeks  to  become  a  mother; 
but  The  O'Melaghlin  had  the  gold  fever  in  its  most  malig 
nant  form,  and  had  even  infected  her  with  the  fell  disease. 

She  also  had  feverish  and  delirious  hallucinations  con 
cerning  the  imaginary  golden  days  that  were  dawning  upon 
them,  of  which,  indeed,  her  present  elegant  and  luxurious 
surroundings  in  this  palace  hotel  seemed  a  prophecy  and  a 
foretaste.  Never  in  her  life  had  Moira  seen,  dreamed  or 
imagined  such  maginficence  as  this  public  house  presented 
to  her.  And  to  make  such  a  superb  style  of  living  their 
own  for  life  was  worth  some  present  sacrifice  of  each  other's 
society  for  a  little  while.  So  she  willingly  let  her  husband 
depart  with  the  gold-seekers,  and  whenever  she  felt  very 
lonesome  without  him  she  just  shut  her  eyes  and  called  up 
the  inward  vision  of  the  gorgeous  future. 

Yet  there  were  moods  in  which  she  grew  too  deeply  im 
pressed  to  look  beyond  the  immediate,  impending  trial, 
bringing  certain  pain  and  danger  and  possible  death  before 
giving  her,  if  it  should  ever  give  her,  the  crown  of  a  woman's 
life — maternity. 

She  had  made  some  few  pleasant  acquaintances  among 
the  ladies  who  were  boarding  at  the  hotel,  and  who  were 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  331 

charmed  by  the  artless  and  confiding  manners  of  this  beau 
tiful  wild  Irish  girl — or  child-woman.  And  when  they  dis 
covered  her  fears  they  laughed  her  into  courage  again, 
telling  her  that  such  dark  forebodings  as  hers  were  quite 
an  indispensable  part  of  the  program,  and  every  mother 
among  them  all  had  been  through  it.  And  they  spoke  the 
truth,  as  every  doctor  knows. 

But  this  hotel  was  a  house  patronized  by  travelers  and 
transient  boarders  only. 

The  ladies  who  had  made  Moira's  acquaintance  and  be 
come  her  friends  one  after  another  went  their  way,  and  she 
was  left  alone. 

True,  others  came.  Every  day  they  came  and  went 
Some  stayed  a  few  hours ;  some  stayed  a  few  days.  Among 
these  were  women  who  would  have  been  very  kind  to  the 
lonely  young  stranger  if  they  had  had  the  chance.  But 
they  had  not.  They  never  saw  her,  or  saw  to  notice  her. 

With  her  increasing  infirmities,  the  young  wife,  when 
daily  expecting  to  become  a  mother,  grew  very  shy  and 
timid.  She  seldom  went  down  into  the  ladies'  parlor — that 
neutral  ground  upon  which  acquaintances  are  sometimes 
made,  and  even  friendships  occasionally  formed ;  and  when 
she  did  go  for  a  little  change,  she  would  conceal  herself 
between  the  curtain  and  sash  of  some  front  window,  and  so, 
hidden  from  the  company,  look  out  upon  the  brilliant  life 
of  Sacramento  Street  until  the  utter  weariness  that  now 
so  frequently  overcame  her  strength  compelled  her  to  creep 
away  to  the  repose  of  her  own  private  apartment. 

Toward  the  last  of  her  life  she  gave  up  entirely  going 
to  the  ladies'  parlor,  and  confined  her  walk  to  the  stairs 
and  halls  between  her  bedchamber  and  the  public  dining- 
room. 

This  walk  was  her  only  exercise,  her  only  change  of  scene, 
and  she  continued  it  daily  to  the  last  day  of  her  life. 

She  made  no  new  acquaintances  in  place  of  those  who 
had  gone  away.  She  had  no  friend  except  an  humble  one 
in  the  chambermaid  who  attended  to  her  room.  In  many 
respects  she  was  worse  off  in  this  elegant  and  luxurious 
house  than  she  would  have  been  in  the  rudest  log  cabin  of 
a  mining  camp,  for  here,  though  she  had  everything  else, 
she  lacked  what  she  would  have  got  there — human  com 
panionship  and  sympathy. 


332  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Often  ehe  longed — wildly  longed — to  see  or  hear  from  her 
husband,  but  knew  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  do  so. 

Yet  she  had  one  great  stay  and  comfort — her  Christian 
faith.  She  was  devoutly  religious  and  spent  much  time  in 
her  room  in  reading  the  Bible,  or  some  book  of  devotion, 
or  in  prayer,  or  in  singing  in  a  low  tone  some  favorite  hymn. 

So  the  time  passed  until  about  six  weeks  after  The 
O'Melaghlin  had  gone  away  to  seek  his  fortune,  when  there 
came  a  change.  She  fell  too  ill  to  go  down  to  dinner  that 
evening. 

The  friendly  chambermaid,  who  volunteered  to  bring  her 
a  cup  of  tea,  also  offered  to  spend  the  night  with  her. 

Moira  gratefully  accepted  these  services. 

Before  midnight  the  girl  had  to  call  the  night  watchman 
and  get  him  to  send  a  messenger  out  for  the  nearest  physi 
cian,  who  came  promptly  in  answer  to  the  call. 

Moira  saw  the  sun  rise  once  more  for  the  last  time.  Then 
she  died,  leaving  behind  her  a  pair  of  healthy  twins — a  boy 
and  a  girl. 

Her  death  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  a  bright,  strong  torch  had  been  instantly  inverted  and 
extinguished. 

Then  there  was  a  commotion  and  a  sensation  in  the  hotel. 

Where  was  the  husband  of  the  dead  woman,  the  father  of 
the  motherless  babes? 

The  office  book  was  searched  to  see  who  was  the  party 
who  had  taken  Room  777  seven  weeks  previous,  and  the 
register  showed  the  name  of  T.  0.  Mannikin  and  wife,  Ogly, 
Ireland.  This  was  the  manner  in  which  the  hurried  clerk 
of  the  hotel  had  heard  and  entered  the  name  and  address 
of  The  O'Melaghlin. 

The  attendant  physician  gave  his  certificate  as  to  the 
natural  cause  of  death,  so  that  there  was  no  need  of  a 
coroner's  inquest. 

But  there  had  to  be  a  thorough  search  made  through  the 
effects  of  the  dead  woman  for  clews  to  friends  or  relatives, 
who  should  be  notified  of  her  deeease. 

Nothing  was  found ;  not  a  letter,  not  even  a  line  of  writ 
ing  except  those  of  the  receipts,  for  she  had  paid  punctually 
every  week  up  to  the  Saturday  before  her  fatal  illness.  The 
poor  young  pair  had  no  correspondents  anywhere. 

was  there  any  money  found.    Her  very  last  dollar 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  333 

had  been  paid  away  for  her  last  week's  board,  and  there 
was  nothing  left  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  the  doctor  or  the 
nurse,  to  pay  the  funeral  expenses  or  to  provide  for  the 
orphan  twins. 

There  was  no  end  of  gossip  in  the  house.  Dress,  fashion, 
operas,  even  mining  stocks  were  temporarily  forgotten  in 
the  discussion  of  this  sad  and  strange  event.  It  was  then 
decided  among  the  worldly  wise  that  the  name  Mannikin 
was  only  an  assumed  one,  that  the  husband  had  deserted  the 
wife,  or  more  probably,  the  destroyer  had  abandoned  his 
prey. 

Human  nature,  sinful  as  it  is  called,  is  nowhere  quite 
heartless. 

A  purse  was  made  up  among  the  people  of  the  house  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  the  young  stranger's  funeral.  And 
on  the  fifth  day  after  her  death  her  remains  were  laid  in  the 
Lone  Mountain  Cemetery. 

The  motherless  babes  were  taken  in  charge  by  the 
monthly  nurse,  a  Mrs.  Mally,  who,  in  a  fit  of  benevolence 
that  did  not  last  long,  adopted  them  and  carried  them  to 
her  own  home. 

The  personal  effects  of  the  poor  dead  young  mother, 
which  were  not  of  much  value  indeed,  but  which  might  have 
been  detained  by  the  proprietors  of  the  hotel  for  the  last 
few  days  of  unpaid  board,  were  given  by  them  into  the 
keeping  of  Nurse  Mally,  either  for  the  benefit  of  the  babes 
or  of  any  claimant  who  might  prove  to  have  the  best  right 
to  them. 

As  for  the  ministering  physician,  like  most  of  the  men  of 
his  humane  profession,  he  waived  all  claim  to  remuneration 
for  his  services. 

Mrs.  Mally  soon  found  the  pursuit  of  her  own  regular 
calling  and  the  care  of  the  orphaned  infants  too  much  for 
her  "nerves." 

Sin  is  the  outcome  of  so  many  causes — hereditary,  taint, 
faulty  training,  temptation  and  opportunity. 

Mrs.  Mally  was  affected  by  all  these.  She  slowly  made 
up  her  mind  to  keep  the  dead  mother's  wardrobe,  trinkets 
and  books  and  to  dispose  of  the  babies.  Sho  would  not  hurt 
them;  not  for  the  world!  But  she  would  put  them  in  a 
haven  where,  in  truth,  they  would  be  much  better  taken  care 
of  than  by  any  poor,  hard-working  woman  like,  herself. 


234  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

So  one  evening  she  dressed  them  in  their  very  best  clothes 
and  gave  them  each  a  dose  of  paregoric,  not  enough  to  en 
danger  their  little  lives — she  knew  her  business  too  well  for 
that — but  to  put  them  into  a  deep  sleep. 

When  it  was  dark  she  got  a  large  market  basket  with  a 
strong  handle,  folded  a  clean  cradle  blanket  and  laid  it  in 
the  bottom  of  it,  took  another  little  blanket  and  laid  it  in 
loose  so  that  its  edges  came  up  over  those  of  the  receptacle. 

Then  she  wrapped  the  sleeping  babies  up  carefully,  put 
them  in  the  bottom,  laid  comfortably  at  each  end  with  their 
feet  passing  each  other  in  the  middle,  covered  them  over 
with  the  double  folds  of  the  upper  blanket,  and  so  done  up 
like  a  pastry  cook's  turn-over  pie,  she  took  them  in  the 
basket  on  her  arm  and  carried  them  out  into  the  dimly 
lighted  back  streets  and  off  into  the  country  to  the  infant 
asylum  of  the  Holy  Maternity.  She  had  not  far  to  go. 
When  she  reached  the  gate,  which  stood  always  open  for 
the  reception  of  such  piteous  little  human  waifs  as  infant 
outcasts,  she  went  in  and  up  to  the  gable  end  of  the 
building,  where  stood  the  cage  to  receive  the  poor,  naked, 
fatherless,  motherless  human  birdlings.  It  was  a  large  oriel 
window,  about  breast  high  from  the  ground. 

She  rang  the  bell  at  the  side  of  the  window.  It  swung 
open  and  around,  bearing  attached  on  its  inner  side  a  soft, 
warm  nest,  or  small  cradle. 

Mrs.  Mally  took  the  sleeping  infants  from  the  basket,  one 
by  one,  and  placed  them  in  the  nest,  tucked  them  snugly 
in,  put  the  two  cradle  blankets,  folded,  over  them,  and 
then  rang  the  bell  again.  The  window-sash  with  the  nest 
swung  round  and  inward,  and  so  the  abandoned  babes  were 
received  within  the  sheltering  arm  of  the  "Holy  Maternity," 
and  no  questions  asked.  We  know  the  rest  of  their  lives 
so  far  as  they  have  yet  lived. 

Mrs.  Mally  went  home  with  her  empty  basket,  and  that 
night  missed  the  babes  so  much  that  she  wept  with  con 
trition  and  loneliness. 

The  next  day  she  hunted  up  every  article  of  infant  wear 
belonging  to  the  twins,  washed  and  ironed  all  that  was 
soiled,  then  packed  them  into  the  basket,  and  when  night 
came  she  went  once  more  to  the  asylum  and  rang  at  the 
receiving  window.  Again  the  nest  swung  outward,  and  she 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  335 

put  into  it,  no  baby,  but  a  quantity  of  babies'  clothing,  then 
rang  the  bell  again  and  the  offering  was  swung  inward. 

Then  Mrs.  Mally  went  home  with  the  empty  basket,  re 
lieved. 

During  all  this  time  The  O'Melaghlin  lay  ill  of  a  long, 
lingering  fever  in  the  mining  camp  under  the  shadow  of  the' 
great  Black  Rock  Ridges. 

He  had  not  been  utterly  unsuccessful  during  the  first  days 
of  trial  before  he  succumbed  to  the  fierce  onset  of  his  disease. 
He  was  as  kindly  cared  for  by  his  companions  as  circum 
stances  would  permit.  He  had  no  orthodox  medical  at 
tendance.  A  Mexican  Indian,  an  herb  doctress,  came  and 
nursed  him.  Her  simple  ministrations,  with  the  aid  of  pure 
air,  pure  water,  nature  and  a  good  constitution,  saved  his 
life. 

But  his  great  mental  trouble  of  anxiety  to  see  or  hear 
from  his  young  wife,  left  alone  in  the  city  hotel,  tended  to 
retard  his  recovery,  which  was  very  tedious. 

His  mates  had  prospered  in  their  search  for  gold.  The 
mine  promised  to  hold  out,  and  not  run  out  as  so  many  did. 
So,  finding  that  the  sick  man's  anxiety  to  see  his  young 
wife  far  outweighed  his  craving  for  the  gold  mine,  they 
made  up  a  liberal  purse  among  themselves  to  send  him  on 
his  way  rejoicing. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  walk  he  set  out  on  foot  from 
the  mining  camp.  He  was  accompanied  half  a  day's  jour 
ney  by  a  couple  of  his  companions,  who  brought  him  as  far 
as  a  friendly  Indian's  hut  and  there  bade  him  good-by,  leav 
ing  him  to  rest  for  the  afternoon  and  spend  the  night,  while 
they  retraced  their  steps  to  the  mining  camp. 

Early  the  next  morning  The  O'Melaghlin  resumed  his 
journey  and  dragged  himself  by  slow  stages  of  ten  or  fifteen 
miles  a  day,  stopping  at  night  in  miner's,  hunter's  or  In 
dian's  hut,  according  as  either  offered  shelter  near  the  close 
of  evening. 

And  so  at  length  he  reached  the  city  late  one  autumn 
night,  aiid  went  straight  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  left  his 
young  wife. 

There  he  learned  that  she  had  been  dead  and  buried  for 
more  than  a  month  past,  and  that  the  twins  to  which  she 
had  given  birth  were  in  the  care  of  the  professional  nurse, 
Mrs.  Mandy  Mally,  of  Cyprus  Lane. 


336  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

But  he  scarcely  heard  this  last  item  of  intelligence. 

The  shock  of  the  first  fatal  news,  coming  as  it  did  after 
the  wasting  of  his  long  illness  and  the  weariness  of  his  long 
tramp,  quite  overwhelmed  The  O'Melaghlin. 

He  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 

He  was  taken  up  and  sent  to  the  casual  ward  of  a  public 
hospital,  where  ha  suffered  a  severe  relapse  that  confined 
him  to  his  bed  for  many  weeks. 

Upon  his  second  recovery,  as  soon  as  he  was  discharged 
from  the  hospital  he  went  in  search  of  the  monthly  nurse 
who  had  taken  charge  of  poor  Moira's  babes. 

He  found  the  woman  in  a  very  small  house  in  a  very 
narrow  back  street. 

She  looked  scared  when  she  was  confronted  with  the 
father  of  the  children  whom  she  had  sent  away. 

But  she  soon  recovered  her  self-control.  She  told  him 
How  she  had  disposed  of  the  children,  and  excused  herself 
by  calling  his  attention  to  the  poverty  of  herself,  her  house 
and  her  surroundings,  and  to  the  necessity  of  her  going  out 
to  work. 

The  O'Melagblin  accepted  all  her  apologies.  He  did  not 
blame  her  in  the  least.  He  thought  it  best  for  the  children 
to  be  under  the  care  of  the  Sisterhood  of  the  Holy  Ma 
ternity:  and  be  told  her  so. 

He  left  tbe  nurse,  and  went  out  to  find  some  cheap  lodg 
ings  where  be  could  hide  himself  and  bis  misery  for  a  few 
flays  until  be  should  be  able  to  come  to  some  understanding 
with  himself  and  strike  out  some  plan  for  tbe  future. 

He  wished  to  go  and  see  bis  children  at  tbe  asylum,  and 
yet  He  dreaded  the  trial ;  he  could  not  get  up  resolution  to  do 
so.  They  had  been  tbe  cause — though  the  innocent  one— 
of  their  mother's  death,  and  so  he  shrank  from  looking  upon 
their  infant  faces. 

Besides,  the  pride  of  The  O'Melaghlin  winced  at  the 
thought  of  going  and  facing  the  Sisters  of  that  House  and 
owning  himself  the  father  of  those  destitute  infants,  without 
either  taking  them  away  at  once  or  making  some  provision 
for  their  support  in  the  institution ;  and  he  could  neither 
take  charge  of  them  himself  nor  provide  for  them  anywhere. 
He  was  at  this  time  too  bitterly  poor. 

No,  he  said  to  himself,  he  could  do  no  better  for  the 
children  than  to  leave  them  there  in  that  safe,  happy  and 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  337 

Christian  home.  He  would  keep  track  of  them,  ho  told 
himself,  and  if  ever  he  should  be  able  he  would  take  them 
away. 

And  without  ever  having  looked  upon  the  faces  of  his 
children  he  left  California  for  Australia,  shipping  himself 
as  a  man  before  the  mast  on  a  large  merchantman  bound 
from  San  Francisco  to  Sydney. 

I  must  hasten  over  the  remainder  of  The  O'Melaghlin's 
story. 

From  the  day  of  his  embarkation  for  Australia  he  became 
a  wanderer  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  chiefly  among  the 
mines.  His  gold  fever,  suspended  for  a  time  by  his  grief 
for  the  loss  of  his  wife,  revived  with  tenfold  force,  so  that 
"the  last  state  of  that  man  was  worse  than  the  first. " 

He  visited  Australia,  Tasmania,  the  Sandwich  Islands, 
New  Zealand,  Cape  Colony  and  other  places,  but  finally 
returned  to  Australia,  where  at  last  he  found  fortune. 

By  the  mere  accident  of  idly  poking  his  staff  in  the 
ground  one  day  while  sitting  down  to  rest,  on  his  way 
through  the  bush,  he  struck  ore — rich  gold — that  turned 
out  one  of  the  greatest  mines  in  that  region. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  tell  all  the  processess  by  which  he 
realized  a  colossal  fortune,  or  by  what  slow  degrees  he  re 
turned  to  the  worthy  ambition  of  his  youth  to  restore  the 
fortunes  of  his  family  by  repurchasing,  at  any  advance  of 
price,  their  lost  land,  and  rebuilding,  at  any  cost,  their 
ruined  castle. 

When  he  had  renewed  his  resolution  to  do  all  this,  he  first 
thought  of  getting  married  to  perpetuate  the  house  of 
O'Melaghlin — although  at  this  period  of  his  life  he  was  not 
at  all  a  marrying  man,  preferring  "the  free,  unhoused  con 
dition"  of  a  bachelor.  Then  suddenly  he  recalled  to  mind 
his  deserted  and  almost  forgotten  children.  If  these  were 
living  he  had  a  son  and  a  daughter  to  carry  down  his  name 
to  the  future ;  for  should  his  son  be  dead  and  his  girl  living, 
whoever  should  marry  the  heiress  of  The  O'Melaghlin  must 
take  the  name  of  O'Melaghlin. 

So,  should  either  of  his  long  neglected  children  be  living, 
he  need  not  be  driven  to  get  married  at  all — which  would 
be  a  great  relief. 

He  settled  up  all  his  aJffairs  in  Australia  and  sailed  for 
California. 


33$  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

When  he  reached  San  Francisco  he  went  immediately  to 
the  asylum  where  his  children  had  been  received. 

I  need  not  follow  the  fataher  in  every  step  of  the  weary 
search  he  had  in  tracing  them  from  the  asylum  to  their 
places  of  apprenticeship ;  from  these  places — with  the  aid  of 
skilful  detectives — to  the  mining  camp  of  Grizzly  Gulch, 
from  that  to  the  fort  and  thence  to  New  York. 

In  New  York,  from  the  Wallings,  he  heard  the  most  satis 
factory  news  of  both,  but  especially  of  the  daughter,  who,  he 
was  told,  had  married  a  wealthy  young  Englishman,  of 
ancient  family  and  of  large  landed  estate,  and  who  had 
gone  to  England  with  her  husband,  taking  her  brother 
along  with  them. 

Mr.  Walling  could  not  give  the  inquiring  father  the  ad 
dress  of  the  young  people,  whom  he  believed  to  be  some 
where  in  London,  living  quietly,  and  pursuing  their  studies 
to  make  up  for  their  long  neglected  education. 

But  he  referred  the  O'Melaghlin  to  Mr.  Cleve  Stuart,  of 
Wblfscliff,  West  Virginia,  who  would  be  able  to  satisfy  him 
on  every  point. 

The  O'Melaghlin,  having  nearly  four  weeks  of  time  on 
hand  before  the  sailing  of  the  steamer,  which  was  the  first 
on  which  he  could  secure  a  passage  to  Liverpool,  resolved, 
in&tead  of  writing  for  information  from  Mr.  Stuart,  to  go 
down  to  Wolfscliff  and  have  a  personal  interview  with  the 
parties  who  had  been  intimate  with  his  son  and  daughter, 
and  who  would  be  able  to  give  him  every  particular  of  their 
character,  personal  appearance  and  history. 

And  so,  as  has  been  seen,  he  came  to  Wolfscliff. 

The  O'Melaghlin  was  deeply  pleased  with  every  circum 
stance  of  his  reception  there;  with  the  cordial  welcome  of 
the  young  master  and  mistress  of  the  house,  with  the  dis 
covery  which  he  honestly  thought  he  had  made  of  a  worthy 
kinsman  in  the  person  of  Cleve  Stuart,  a  descendant,  as 
O'Melaghlin  himself  claimed  to  be,  on  his  mother's  side,  of 
the  royal  house  of  Scotland. 

But  more  than  all  was  he  pleased  with  the  account  he 
heard  from  his  host  and  hostess  of  his  long  neglected  son 
and  daughter. 

"  You  will  be  hearing  from  these  young  people  every  week, 
will  ye  not,  Wolfscliff  ?"  he  inquired  that  evening,  after  hav 
ing  finished  his  story. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  339 

"My  wife  hears  from  her  cousin  Judith  by  almost  every 
English  mail,"  answered  Cleve. 

"And  you'll  be  getting  a  letter  in  a  day  or  so?" 

"Yes,  most  likely." 

"And,  of  course,  answering  it?" 

"  Of  course !  That  is,  my  wife  will !  As  I  hinted  before, 
the  correspondence  of  the  two  families  is  kept  up  by  Palma 
and  Judith." 

"Ah!     So  then  you  are  the  scribe,  Mistress  Stuart?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Palma,  smiling. 

"And  you  are  thinking,  ma'am,  what  a  grand  piece  of 
news  you  will  have  to  tell  vour  friend  in  your  very  next 
letter." 

"Indeed,  I  am  thinking  of  just  such  a  delight!"  ex 
claimed  Palma,  her  eyes  fairly  dancing  with  anticipation. 

"Then  I  am  almost  sorry  to  debar  you  from  such  a  pleas 
ure,  ma'am,  but  I  must  beseech  you  not  to  make  known  my 
existence  to  my  son  and  daughter  until  we  meet  them  in 
England  face  to  face,"  said  O'Melaghlin  solemnly. 

"Oh  !"  exclaimed  Palma,  with  a  look  of  great  disappoint 
ment, 

"I  have  good  reasons  for  my  request,  and  I  will  tell  them 
to  vou.  Your  husband,  my  friend  Wolfscliff  there,  will  un 
derstand  them.  I  wish  to  be  introduced  to  the  young  ones 
simply  as  The  O'Melaghlin.  They  have  probably  never 
heard  that  name  before  in  all  their  lives.  They  can  never 
suspect  its  connection  with  themselves " 

"Do  I  understand  you  really,  O'Melaghlin  ?  Do  you  wish 
to  be  presented  as  a  stranger  to  your  own  son  and  daugh 
ter?"  inquired  Stuart  in  perplexity. 

"That  is  just  exactly  what  I  do  "wish,"  replied  the  Irish 
man. 

"But  why?"  inquired  Stuart,  while  Palma  looked  the 
same  question  with  great,  dilated  eyes. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  make  a  quiet  observation  of 
them  while  yet  they  consider  me  a  mere  ordinary,  uninter 
esting  stranger,  with  whom  they  can  be  at  perfect  ease,  and 
show  themselves  as  they  really  are  with  perfect  freedom." 

"But  don't  you  suppose  they  could  do  that  with  their  own 
father,  knowing  him  to  be  their  father  who  had  come  to 
seek  them  out,  to  find  them,  to  make  up  to  them — and  to 
himself  as  well — for  their  long  separation  from  him — don't 


340  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

you  suppose  they  could  feel  at  ease  and  act  with  freedom 
in  the  presence  of  such  a  father?"  demanded  Stuart. 

"No,  I  don't!"  emphatically  retorted  The  O'Melaghlin. 
"Under  the  circumstances,  I  don't  believe  they  could  either 
feel  easy  or  behave  naturally.  They  would  be  so  surprised, 
so  amazed " 

"But  if  they  were  carefully  prepared  for  the  meeting 
beforehand,"  suggested  Stuart. 

"I  doubt  if  you  could  prepare  them  for  so  strange  a  meet 
ing.  But  granting  that  you  could,  still  they  would  be  so 
filled  with  wonder  and  curiosity,  so  anxious  to  do  their  duty, 
so  eager  to  make  a  good  impression,  that,  as  I  said  before, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  feel  comfortably  or  be 
have  naturally.  No,  you  must  present  me  to  vonr  frionrlp, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randolph  Hav,  simply  as  vour  kinsman,  The 
O'Melaghlin  of  Arghalee.  You  may  write  and  ask  permis 
sion  to  bring  your  kinsman  to  Haymore  Hall,"  concluded 
the  chieftain. 

"It  would  not  be  necessary  to  ask  permission.  Indeed,  it 
would  hurt  my  friend  Ran  for  me  to  do  so.  He  would  have 
us  all  treat  his  house  as  our  own,  and  bring  whom  we 
pleased,  without  ceremony,  taking  much  more  than  his  per 
mission  for  granted,  even  taking  his  delight  to  welcome  any 
of  our  friends,  for  granted,"  replied  Stuart. 

*<  Ah,  then,  sure  he  is  a  whole-souled,  great-hearted  fellow, 
this  husband  of  my  Judy!  This  son-in-law  of  my  own! 
'And  T  shall  be  proud  to  make  his  acquaintance.  Troth, 
he  should  have  been  an  Irishman !"  warmlv  exclaimed 
The  O'Melaghlin.  "And  now,"  he  added,  turning  suddenly 
around  to  Palma,  "do  you  understand,  ma'am,  why  I  wish 
to  meet  my  son  and  daughter  as  a  stranger,  and  to  observe 
them  for  a  whole  day  or  an  evening  before  making  myself 
known  to  them  ?' 

"Perfectly,  Mr.  O'Melaghlin.  And  I  think  yon  are  quite 
right,"  warmly  responded  Palma. 

"I  thank  you,  ma'am,  for  your  indosement  of  my  judg 
ment.  And  now,  my  dear  young  lady,  will  yon  oblige  me  in 
one  small  matter  ?"  he  gravely  inquired. 

"In  anything,  great  or  small,  that  lies  within  my  power, 
Mr.  O'Melaghlin,"  smiled  Palma, 

"Then,  my  dear  young  lady,  will  yon  graciously  drop  the 
'mister'  before  my  name?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  341 

Palma  looked  up  in  questioning  surprise. 

"I  will  explain,  mv  dear  madam.  The  O'Melaghlins  have 
been  The  O'Melaghlins  from  time  immemorial,  as  I  had 
the  honor  to  tell  you  before.  They  were  monarchs  of  Meath 
for  many  centuries;  but  they  were  never  'mister,'  like  any 
ordinary  Smith,  Jones,  or  Brown,  or  Anybody.  So,  my  fair 
kinswoman,  you  will  please  to  oblige  me  by  dropping  that 
little  prefix  to  my  old  historic  name." 

"Bnt,  Mr.— I  beg  pardon.  But,  sir,  if  I  must  not  call  you 
''mister/  how  shall  T  address  you  or  speak  of  you?"  inquired 
the  bewildered  vounsr  woman. 

"Simplv  as  O'Melasrhlin,  or  The  O'Melasrhlin.  My  dear, 
Kow  would  vou  speak  of  or  address  Julius  Cfeesar,  Marc  An- 
tonv,  or  Alexander  the  Great?  Would  you  sav  'Mr.'  Julius 
rCa?sar?  'Mr.'  Marc  Antonv?  No,  vou  would  not.  And 
no  more  should  vou  sav  Mr.  O'Melasrhlin.  There  are  family 
narnps.  mv  dear  ladv.  that  outrank  not  only  the  little  prefix 
of  'mister,'  but  all  titles,  and  such  a  name  is  that  of  The 
O'Mplasftlin."  solemnlv  concluded  the  chieftain. 

"Verv  well,  O'Melaffhlin,"  laughed  Palma,  "I  will  here 
after  alwavg  remember  to  call  vou  O'Melafirhlin,  though,  in- 
'deed.  it  will  make  me  feel  like  a  very  fast  young  woman, 
and  just  as  if  T  had  a  jockey  cap  on  my  head  and  a  cigar 
in  my  mouth." 

"T  wish  to  be  enlightened,"  said  Stuart,  with  a  smile. 
KYou  call  me  'WolMiftV  Why,  upon  the  same  principle, 
<3o  you  not  call  yourself  Arghalee?" 

The  chieftain  drew  himself  up  with  a  royal  air  and  re 
plied  majestically : 

"Because,  sir,  The  O'Melaghlin  ranks  the  territorial  title 
of  Arghalee,  as  it  ranks  every  other  title!" 

"Does  not  the  royal  name  of  Stuart  rank  Wolfscliff  ?" 

"It  would;  but  there  are  thousands  of  Stuarts,  and  vou 
are  only  one  of  them,  and  derive  your  individual  distinction 
from  your  manor.  You  are  Stuart,  of  Wolfscliff.  There 
is  but  one  O'Melaghlin.  I  am  The  O'Melaghlin." 

"And  your  son  ?" 

"He  is  Michael  O'Melaghlin.  When  he  succeeds  me  lie 
will  be  The  O'Melaghlin." 

"T  see !"  said  Stuart,  with  a  smile. 

IBut  I  doubt  if  he  did  see. 


342  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

AN  ANGEL'S  WORK 

THE  next  day  Palma  had  a  final  and  decisive  talk  with 
Mrs.  Pole. 

In  such  high  esteem  was  this  good  woman  held  by  the 
young  Stuarts  that  thev  regarded  her  almost  as  a  mother. 

"When  the  question  of  going  to  England  that  summer  was 
first  mooted,  the  alternative  was  placed  before  Mrs.  Pole, 
and  the  choice  given,  her  to  accompany  the  younsr  pair  on 
their  voyage  and  foreign  tour  or  to  remain  at  Wolfscliff  in 
charge  of  the  house. 

And  the  woman,  on  her  part,  had  entreated  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Stuart  to  tell  her  whirh  thev  would  prefer  to  have  her  do. 

To  which  they  replied  that  they  wished  her  to  do  just  as 
she  pleased. 

This  morning  Palma  came  into  the  nursery,  where  Mrs. 
Pole  sat  beside  the  cradle,  watchinsr  the  sleeping  babies, 
while  she  sewed  on  some  nlain  needlework. 

Now  for  the  last  fortnight  Mrs.  Pole  had  been  halting 
between  two  opinions,  divided  between  the  affections  for 
Cleve  and  Palma  and  their  children,  that  drew  to  go  with 
them,  and  her  dread  of  the  long  voyage  and  love  of  quiet 
that  bound  her  to  her  home.  Therefore,  she  wished  them  to 
make  the  decision  for  her  that  she  was  incapable  of  making 
for  herself.  And  they  would  not. 

But  within  a  day  or  two  it  had  been  "borne  in"  upon  the 
mind  of  Poley  that,  although  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart  reallv 
wished  her  to  do  as  she  pleased  in  this  matter  of  sroing  or 
staying,  yet  that  they  would  be  better  satisfied  that  she 
should  please  to  stay  at  Wolfscliff  to  take  care  of  the  house 
than  to  go  to  Europe  with  them.  Mrs.  Pole  and  her  young 
friends  were  really  secretly  of  one  mind  in  this  matter. 

So  when  Palma  sat  down  beside  her  she  was  prepared  to 
meet  the  question. 

Palma  said: 

"Poley,  dear,  it  is  really  time  now  that  you  should  make 
rip  your  mind  as  to  what  von  are  going  to  do  about  going: 
to  Europe  with  us  or  staying  here.  Because,  if  you  should 
Decide  to  go  with  us,  Poley,  dear,  we  must  begin  at  once 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  343 

to  look  out  for  some  good  and  reliable  woman  to  come  and 
take  care  of  the  house  while  we  are  away." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child,  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  look 
out  for  nobody.  If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  I  will  my  own 
self  stay  here  and  look  after  the  place  while  you  are  gone. 
Will  that  suit  you,  ma'am  ?" 

"Perfectly,  Poley,  dear.  We  would  rather  leave  you  in 
charge  of  our  home  than  any  one  else,  if  you  are  satisfied 
to  stay." 

"Yes,  I  am,  dearie.  I'm  over  elderly  to  be  sailing  on  the 
high  seas,  and  nothing  but  my  love  for  you  all  would  ever 
a-made  me  think  of  such  a  thing.  And  now,  as  I  find  I 
can  serve  you  better  bv  staying  here  than  going  'long  o'  you, 
why,  'deed,  I'd  heap  liefer  stay  here." 

"Then  it  is  all  right,  Poley.  And  now  tell  me,  when 
did  vou  hear  from  your  niece?" 

"Jane  Morgan,  you  mean,  ma'am?" 

"Of  course,  Jane  Morgan.  I  did  not  know  you  had  any 
other  niece." 

"No  more  I  hadn't,  ma'am.  Well,  I  heard  from  her  'bout 
two  weeks  ago.  He  have  been  out  of  work  near  all  the  latter 
part  o'  the  winter,  and  they've  been  a-having  of  a  very  hard 
time,  ma'am,  and  that  is  a  fact,  with  all  the  mouves  they've 
got  to  feed,  too." 

"TTow  many  children  have  they,  Poley  ?" 

"Six,  ma'am.  The  oldest  nine  years  old,  and  the  young 
est  nine  months.  And  he  out  of  work  so  long,  poor  fellow !" 

"Vou  should  have  told  me,  Poley." 

"What  for,  ma'am  ?  You  couldn't  have  helped  it.  I  sent 
'em  a  eood  part  of  my  washes,  and  that  kept  'em  a-going." 

"Poley,  do  you  remember  that  I  told  you  your  niece 
should  come  here  and  bring  all  her  babies  this  summer  to 
see  you  and  to  get  the  benefit  of  this  pure  mountain  air?" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  indeed  I  do  remember!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pole,  brightening  up. 

"And  have  you  written  to  your  niece  about  it?" 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am.  As  you  never  mentioned  the  subject 
again  after  that  first  time,  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  had 
forgotten  it  or  changed  your  mind." 

"Oh,  Poley!  How  could  you?  Well,  now,  look  here. 
Write  to  your  niece  and  tell  her  to  come  and  bring  all  her 
children  down  here  to  spend  the  summer  with  you  while  we 


344  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

are  gone  to  Europe.  And  I  hope  they  will  come,  Poley.  It 
would  do  the  little  children  so  much  good.  And,  oh !  is  Mr. 
Morgan  out  of  work  now,  Poley  ?" 

"He  was  two  weeks  ago,  ma'am,  with  no  prospect  of  get 
ting  any." 

"What  is  his  trade?" 

"He  is  a  carpenter  and  builder,  ma'am?" 

"Oh,  then  I  do  think  we  shall  be  able  to  do  a  good  thing 
for  him.  Such  a  good  thing  for  him  !"  exclaimed  Palma. 

Mrs.  Pole  looked  up  in  mute  surprise  and  inquiry. 

"Why,  this  is  it.  You  know  there  is  ever  so  much  carpen 
ter's  work  wnnting  to  be  done  on  the  place.  I  have  heard 
Cleve  talking  about  it.  The  barn  is  to  be  almost  rebuilt,  and 
the  house  here  wants  repairs.  Cleve  thought  of  getting  a 
carpenter  down  from  Staunton.  But  now,  you  see,  I  shall 
just  ask  him  to  send  for  Mr.  Morgan.  And  then  they  can 
all  come  down  here — husband,  wife  and  children !  Won't 
that  be  trloriou?,  Poley  ?  And  he  will  not  lose  his  tune,  and 
they  will  not  be  under  expenses !"  cried  Palma  in  delight. 

"That  will  be  very  fine  indeed,  ma'am,  if  so  be  it  can 
be  managed,"  replied  Mrs.  Pole. 

And  then  she  began  to  compute  how  much  it  would  cost 
to  bring  Joseph  and  Jane  Morgan  and  their  family  from 
New  York  to  West  Virginia,  and  to  count  up  her  own 
savings  from  her  wages. 

"I  can  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  can  do  it!  And 
they  can  pay  me  afterward  as  they  get  on,  and  if  they  don't 
they  needn't  bother  about  it." 

Palma  went  straight  to  Cleve  and  unfolded  her  views. 
"You  see,  dear,"  she  said,  after  she  had  duly  introduced 
the  subject,  "I  did  give  Poley  leave  to  ask  her  niece  and 
the  children  to  come  down  here  and  stay  with  her  while  we 
should  be  away  in  Europe ;  for,  oh !  only  think  how  much 
srood  it  will  do  those  poor  little  children !  And  now  since 
the  husband  and  father  is  a  carpenter  and  a  skilled  work 
man,  as  Poley  says  he  is,  what  could  happen  better  for  all 
parties?  You  can  engage  him  to  do  the  work  here  that  is 
so  much  wanted.  And  it  will  be  such  a  good  thing  for  him 
and  his  family  as  well  as  for  us." 

"My  dear  quixotic  Palma,  your  benevolence  carries  you 

into  wild  extravagance,  I  fear,"  said  Stuart,  with  a  smile. 

*I  was  only  thinking  of  the  poor  man — a  skilled  me- 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  345 

chanic,  too,  out  of  employment — and  of  his  poor,  overtasked 
wife  and  their  poor  little  children.  I  know  it  is  an  unusual 
thing  to  do  to  bring  down  a  whole  family  when  one  only 
wants  a  carpenter.  But  then,  you  see,  the  circumstances  are 
also  unusual,  and " 

"And  the  little  woman  who  plans  the  arrangements  is  not 
only  unusual,  but — phenomenal !"  Stuart  said,  interrupting 
her,  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  Cleve,  listen  to  me,  dear,  and  be  serious,  for  I  am. 
I  said  the  circumstances  were  unusual,  and  so  they  are. 
We  are  going  to  Europe,  and  this  old  house  among  the  hills 
would  be  nearly  empty  while  we  are  gone,  and  Mrs.  Pole 
would  be  alone  except  for  the  negro  servants  on  the  place 
unless  we  should  let  her  have  some  one  to  stav  with  her. 
Now  these  people  are  her  nearest  relations.  T  promised 
her  that  they  should  come  and  visit  h^r.  Thev  are  in  bitter 
want  of  all  that  the  change  would  bring  them— and,  oh, 
dear  me,  Cleve !"  she  suddenly  broke  off,  "we  are  not  living 
in  this  world  all  for  ourselves!  And  don't  von  think  it 
would  be  a  sin,  and  we  should  be  worse  than  the  dog  in  the 
manger  to  leave  this  big  old  house  among  the  hills  almost 
empty  when  we  go  away  instead  of  opening  it  to  that  poor, 
half-starved  and  half-stifled  tenement  family  whose  children 
would  here  have  fresh  air,  pure  water  and  good  food,  and 
who  would  get  health  and  strength  and  delight  in  this  beau 
tiful  place?" 

"Why,  Palma,  dear,  you  talk  to  me  as  if  T  ha.d  to  be 
argued  into  consenting  to  this  arrangement.  It  is  enough, 
love,  that  you  wish  to  have  it  made,"  said  Stuart. 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you,  Cleve;  but  I  wished  to  con 
vince,  not  to  coax  you." 

"A  distinction  without  a  difference  in  this  case,  dear. 
Well,  I  will  see  to  this." 

The  only  hesitation  Stuart  felt  was  as  to  the  character  of 
the  man  Morgan,  of  whom  neither  Palma  nor  himself  knew 
anything.  But  Mrs.  Pole  did  know,  and  Stuart  resolved  to 
have  a  talk  with  the  woman,  in  whose  honesty  and  judgment 
he  had  equal  and  entire  confidence. 

Later  in  the  day  he  questioned  Mrs.  Pole,  and  when  she 
assured  Mr.  Stuart  that  "he" — she  always  referred  to  her 
nephew-in-law  by  the  pronoun  instead  of  his  name — "he" 
was  honest,  temperate  and  industrious  as  a  man  could  be, 


346  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

and  his  only  fault  was  carelessness  about  saving  money 
when  he  had  it,  though  he  never  wasted  it  on  himself,  but 
on  the  young  ones,  even  to  the  extravagance  of  an  excursion 
sometimes.  But  for  that,  "he"  was  as  good  and  trusty  a 
man  as  ever  wore  shoe  leather. 

Upon  this  information  Stuart  acted,  and  wrote  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Morgan  offering  him  work  for  the  summer,  with 
good  wages  and  his  expenses  paid  to  West  Virginia  if  he 
should  accept  the  terms.  This  business  letter  inclosed  two 
others,  one  from  Palma  to  Mrs.  Morgan,  explaining  circum 
stances  and  asking  her  as  a  favor  to  come  with  Mr.  Morgan 
and  bring  all  their  children  and  stay  at  Wolfscliff  with  Mrs. 
Pole  for  the  whole  summer  and  part  of  the  autumn,  while 
Mr.  Stuart  and  she  (the  writer)  should  be  in  Europe.  The 
last  letter  was  from  Mrs.  Pole  to  her  niece,  imploring  her 
not  to  be  "backward"  in  accepting  the  lady's  invitation, 
which  was  made  in  good  faith  and  in  the  earnest  desire  to 
do  them  service. 

These  letters,  inclosed  in  one  envelope,  were  sent  off  by 
that  day's  mail. 

Within  seven  days  the  answer  came.  One  from  Morgan 
to  Mr.  Stuart,  gratefully  accepting  the  liberal  terms  offered 
him;  one  from  Jane  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Stuart,  overflowing 
with  delight  and  thankfulness,  and  telling  the  lady,  what 
Palma  appreciated  best  of  all,  that  her  children  were  "fairly 
standing  on  their  heads  in  delight  at  the  thought  of  their 
going  into  the  country,"  and  one  from  the  niece  to  her  aunt, 
breathing  of  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  gifts  for 
this  blessing. 

Stuart  sent  on  his  check  to  Morgan. 

Mrs.  Pole  began  active  preparations  for  the  reception  of 
her  niece  and  the  children. 

The  large  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor  which  had  once 
been  the  private  apartment  of  old  Mr.  Cleve,  and  two 
smaller  rooms  in  the  rear  of  that  were  fitted  up  for  the 
family. 

"Because,"  said  Palma,  "these  rooms  all  open  upon  the 
back  porch  and  the  end  porch,  and  will  be  so  convenient  for 
the  little  children  to  run  in  and  out  without  danger  of  fall 
ing  from  any  height  or  hurting  themselves." 

Mrs.  Pole  was  ready  to  cry  with  the  feeling  of  the  young 
woman's  tender,  thoughtful  kindness. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  347 


Palma  was  busy  also  with  her  own  preparations.    It 
no  very  easy  matter  to  pack  trunks  for  her  husband,  hen 
children  and  herself  for  a  voyage  to  Europe.     It  would 
have  been  a  much  harder  task  but  that  Cleve  continually 
reminded  her  that  she  xeally  needed  to  take  no  more  than 
they  might  require  on  their  voyage. 

"To  carry  clothes  to  Europe  is  to  'carry  coals  to  New 
castle/  "  he  said,  quoting  an  old  proverb. 

Hatty,  to  her  great  delight,  was  selected  from  all  the 
other  servants  to  go  with  them  as  lady's  maid  and  children's 
nurse. 

The  last  week  of  their  stay  at  Wolfscliff  came.  And  the 
program  for  that  week  was  all  laid  out. 

On  Sunday  they  all  went  to  church  together. 

On  Monday  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart  gave  a  dinner 
party  at  Wolfscliff  in  honor  of  their  guest,  The  O'Melagh- 
lin,  and  for  which  the  invitations  had  been  given  out  several 
days  previous.  This  was  a  great  success.  All  the  family 
connections  of  the  Stuarts  and  the  Cleves  were  on  hand,  and 
The  O'Melaghlin  was  in  great  force,  notwithstanding,  or 
perhaps  just  because,  he  had  taken  a  great  deal  more  wine 
than  was  good  for  him.  But  in  this  respect  he  was  kept  well 
in  countenance  by  the  elders  of  that  dinner  table  ;  for  up  to 
this  time  the  total  abstinence  movement  had  not  reached 
that  neighborhood,  where  the  heads  of  old  families  kept  up 
the  convivial  habits  of  their  forefathers. 

On  Tuesday,  by  appointment,  Mr.  Stuart  sent  the  large 
carryall  and  also  the  ox  cart  to  Wolfswalk  to  meet  the  Mor 
gans,  who  were  expected  to  arrive  that  afternoon. 

After  their  dispatch  the  whole  household  of  Wolfscliff 
was  in  a  state  of  expectancy  much  more  delightful  at  the 
anticipation  of  meeting  the  poor  workman's  family  of  small 
children  who  would  be  in  such  esctasies  at  their  visit  than 
they  would  have  been  in  looking  forward  to  the  arrival  of 
the  most  distinguished  party  this  country  could  afford. 

But  it  was  quite  late  at  night  when  the  two  lumbering 
vehicles  drew  up  before  the  door. 

The  O'Melaghlin  had  retired  to  rest. 

Stuart  had  remained  in  the  drawing-room  under  silent 
protest,  until  Palma  entreated,  exhorted  and  commanded, 
using  all  the  forms  of  the  potential  mood  in  order  to  make 


348  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

him  go  to  tbed.  Then  he  laughed  and  yielded,  and  Palma 
and  Mrs.  Pole  "stayed  up"  to  receive  the  travelers. 

They  had  a  nice  supper,  also,  ready  for  them. 

So  when  they  heard  the  wheels  grate  on  the  pebbles  be 
fore  the  house  both  rushed  out  of  the  room  just  in  time  to 
see  old  'Sias,  who  alone  of  all  the  servants  shared  their 
watch,  unbolt  and  unbar  the  great  double  front  door. 

Then  the  door  was  opened  and  the  large  party  filed  in. 

Palma  withdrew  to  the  background  to  let  Mrs.  Pole  offer 
the  first  greetings  to  her  relatives.  First  came  Joe,  with 
one  child  fast  asleep  on  his  shoulder,  and  another,  half 
asleep,  holding  his  hand  by  his  side. 

Then  came  Jane,  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  and  two 
little  girls  clinging  to  her  skirts,  and  the  eldest  boy  close 
behind  her. 

Mrs.  Pole  received  them  one  by  one,  kissing  them  in  tears 
of  joy,  and  with  disconnected,  inarticulate  words  of  wel 
come. 

In  the  midst  of  this  little  hubbub  the  carryall  and  ox 
cart  were  heard  to  start  again  and  roll  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  barnyard. 

Mrs.  Pole  presented  them  all,  one  by  one,  to  Palma,  who 
received  each  with  great  kindness,  and  took  the  baby  to  hold 
in  her  arms,  while  its  mother,  father  and  all  the  other  chil 
dren  followed  Mrs.  Pole  into  the  bedrooms  to  take  off  their 
wraps  and  wash  for  supper. 

Then  came  the  comfortable  supper  and  the  chat  that  ac 
companied  it. 

Palma  felt  fully  compensated  for  her  "quixotism." 

When  they  all  bade  her  good-night  and  went  to  their 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor  Palma  felt  too  joyful  to  retire ; 
so  she  stayed  up  talking  to  Mrs.  Pole  until  midnight,  and 
then — even  then — when  she  retired  to  bed,  she  was  too  hap 
py  to  sleep — too  happy  in  the  thought  of  the  happiness  she 
witnessed. 

The  next  morning  must  have  reconciled  a  more  hard- 
headed  man  that  Cleve  Stuart  to  the  quixotism  of  his  wife. 

The  lawn  resounded  with  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the 
little  children,  who  might  have  thought,  if  young  children 
ever  think,  that  they  had  died  in  their  tenement  house  and 
waked  up  in  heaven. 

Stuart  was  as  much  pleased  with  the  frank,  honest  face 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  349 

and  manner  of  Joseph  Morgan  as  Palma  was  with  the  true, 
tender,  motherly  countenance  and  conversation  of  Jane 
Morgan. 

On  Thusday  morning  the  Stuarts,  with  The  O'Melaghlin 
and  their  servants,  started  for  Xew  York,  en  route  for  Eng 
land. 

They  reached  the  city  on  Friday  morning. 

They  spent  the  day  in  making  calls  on  the  fallings  and 
other  friends. 

On  Saturday  the  whole  party  sailed  for  Liverpool. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

GENTLEMAN  GEFF?S  FATE 

GENTLEMAN  GEFF  was  in  a  profound  stupor  when  he  was 
taken  to  the  rectory  and  put  to  hed  in  the  best  chamber  of 
the  house — the  parlor  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor. 

He  continued  in  this  state  for  several  days,  faithfully 
watched  by  Elspeth  and  Longman,  and  frequently  visited 
bv  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell,  and  daily  attended  by  Dr. 
Hobbs. 

Jennie  shrank  from  even  going  to  look  at  him. 

But  he  recognized  no  one,  noticed  nothing. 

Medicine  and  highly  concentrated  nourishment  were 
regularly  administered  to  him  by  his  nurses. 

These  he  sometimes  swallowed  instinctively,  mechanical 
ly,  and  at  other  times  choked  over,  and  had  to  be  raised  in 
bed  and  have  his  throat  relieved  and  his  mouth  wiped  like 
a  helpless  baby;  but  all  unconsciously  on  his  part.  He 
never  knew,  or  seemed  to  know,  what  he  himself  wag  suf 
fering,  or  other  people  were  doing. 

His  spirit  was  away,  away. 

Where? 

In  Hades,  most  probably,  judging  from  his  antecedents. 

"Will  he  die  in  this  stupor,  or  come  out  of  it,  do  you 
think,  sir?"  inquired  the  rector  of  the  doctor  one  morning 
as  the  two  men  stood  by  the  bedside  of  the  patient. 

Dr.  Hobbs  never  "shook  his  head;"  doctors  nerer  do 


350  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

such  stupidly  disheartening  things  over  a  case,  however 
serious — story  writers  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

This  physician  also  had  the  courage  to  confess  that  he 
was  not  omniscient,  for  he  answered : 

"I  do  not  know." 

"But  if  he  should  come  out  of  this  stupor,  will  he  be 
likclv  to  live?"  inquired  the  rector. 

"I  do  not  know,"  again  replied  the  doctor.  "I  shall  be 
better  able  to  judge  when  he  recovers  consciousness,  if  he 
should  ever  recover  it." 

And  the  physician  wrote  his  prescriptions  and  instruc 
tions  for  the  treatment  of  the  ill  man  and  retired. 

Not  one  word  of  this  talk  entered  the  consciousness  of 
Gentleman  Geff. 

Nine  days  he  lay  in  this  condition,  and  then  there  passed 
over  him  a  change. 

He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  groping  feebly  out  of  noth 
ingness  into  vague  conscioupness  of  horror;  but  what  the 
horror  was,  or  what  he  himself  was,  he  did  not  even  think. 
The  first  effort  to  do  so  sent  him  back  into  the  state  from 
which  he  had  come. 

After  a  few  hours  he  came  again  out  of  utter  oblivion 
into  some  faint  consciousness  of  himself. 

But  who  was  he?    Where  was  he? 

All  was  dark  and  still  around  him.  Then  came  faint  in 
telligence,  with  imperfect  memory,  which  mingled  dreams 
with  distorted  facts.  He  remembered  faintly  what  he  would 
have  called  "a  row,"  but  where,  or  under  what  circum 
stances,  he  could  not  find;  he  thought  it  was  a  drunken 
brawl  over  cards  in  a  gambling  saloon,  and  some  one  had 
crushed  in  his  brain  and  killed  him. 

Yes,  that  was  it!  He  had  been  killed  last  night  in  a 
drunken  brawl  over  cards,  in  a  gambling  saloon,  and  now 
he  had  come  to  life 

Where? 

In  that  dark  lower  world,  without  sun,  moon  or  stars; 
without  air,  water  or  vegetation ;  that  world  of  horror  and 
despair  of  which  he  had  heard  in  childhood,  but  in  which  he 
had  never  believed,  and  where  he  must  wait  with  thieves 
and  murderers  and  miscreants  like  himself  until  the  general 
judgment  day;  and  after  that 

What? 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  351 

The  eternal  life  of  torture  in  the  lake  of  fire  and  brim 
stone  in  which  he  had  never  believed,  either  in  its  literal  or 
in  its  metaphorical  meaning. 

And  now  he  was  too  utterly  debilitated  in  mind  and  body 
to  know  or  to  feel  anything  very  clearly  or  deeply. 

He  relapsed  into  unconsciousness. 

When  he  came  to  himself  the  next  time  he  was  able  to 
think  with  a  little  more  clearness,  and  to  recollect  with 
more  correctness. 

He  remembered  now  that  it  was  at  Haymore  Hall  the 
"row"  had  occurred,  in  which  he  still  believed  he  had  been 
knocked  down  and  had  succumbed  to  his  injuries,  and  had 
now  waked  up  in  the  world  of  darkness,  horror  and  despair, 
to  wait  for  his  final  doom. 

His  final  doom? 

He  moaned  in  his  helplessness,  not  altogether  from  fear 
of  future  hell,  but  from  a  feeling  of  present  thirst,  in 
tolerable  even  as  the  rich  man  suffered  when  he  cried  to 
Father  Abraham  to  send  Lazarus  to  dip  his  finger  in  water 
and  cool  his  parched  tongue. 

"When  he  had  moaned  a  second  time  he  felt  the  approach 
of  some  huge,  dark  form.  It  stood  by  him,  it  bent  over  him, 
put  out  a  strong  arm  under  his  shoulders  and  lifted  him, 
and  placed  a  glassful  of  a  refreshing  beverage  to  his  lips. 

He  drank  and  breathed  more  freely. 

Ah  !  how  delicious  it  was  ! 

The  attendant  replaced  his  head  on  the  pillow,  smoothed 
his  bedclothes  and  withdrew  to  take  away  the  glass. 

In  a  moment  he  came  back,  bent  over  the  still  half- 
comatose  man  and  inquired  softly: 

"How  do  you  feel,  Capt.  Montgomery?" 

"I— I— I— feel "  muttered  Gentleman  Geff,  and 

then  swooned  into  the  slumber  of  weakness. 

Some  one  silently  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  It  was 
the  rector. 

"How  is  your  patient,  Longman?"  he  inquired. 

"  Sir,  he  has  just  swallowed  more  liquid  than  he  has  since 
he  has  been  ill ;  and  he  has  spoken  for  the  first  time,"  re 
plied  the  nurse. 

"Coherently?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  did  he  say?" 


352  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Well,  not  much.  I  asked  him  how  he  felt,  as  an  experi 
ment,  you  see,  sir,  and  to  find  out  whether  he  could  under 
stand  anything;  and  he  did  understand,  for  he  began  to 
tell  me,  and  he  dropped  off  to  sleep.  You  see  he  is  sleeping 
naturally,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  see.  Well,  Longman,  it  is  one  o'clock.  Go  to 
bed.  I  will  relieve  your  watch/5  said  the  rector,  sinking 
into  the  large  easy-chair  beside  the  patient. 

Longman  made  some  resistance  to  this  proposal,  but  Mr. 
Campbell  was  firm,  and  sent  off  the  wearied  nurse  to  take 
his  much  needed  rest. 

The  ill  man  rested  well  for  some  hours,  and  then  moaned 
in  his  sleep. 

The  watcher  gave  him  a  cooling  and  strengthening  bever 
age,  just  as  Longman  had  done,  and  the  patient  sank  again 
into  sleep,  muttering: 

"I  can't  be  in  hell,  after  all,  for  in  hell  no  one  comes 

from  heaven  to  put  a  cool "  Then  his  words  became 

inaudible  until  he  dropped  into  unconsciousness  with  the 
last  word — "purgatory" — on  his  failing:  tongue. 

All  the  remainder  of  the  night  he  slept  well,  only  occa 
sionally  muttering  in  his  sleep: 

"Not  in  hell,  after  all — only  in  purgatory — not  such  a 
bad  place." 

Tn  the  morning  when  the  doctor  came  to  make  his  daily 
visit  he  found  the  ill  man  sleeping  quietly  and  Mr.  Camp 
bell  and  Longman  sitting  by  his  bed. 

He  examined  the  patient's  pulse  and  temperature  without 
waking  him,  and  then  took  the  two  watchers'  report. 

"Took  nourishment  with  a  relish  and  spoke  consciously — 
both  good  signs,  excellent  signs !  but  I  can  say  no  more  at 
present." 

The  doctor  wrote  out  the  formulas  for  the  day  and  took 
leave. 

All  that  day  Gentleman  Geff  remained  in  the  same  con 
dition  without  a  sign  of  further  improvement.  All  the  fol 
lowing  night  Longman  had  a  repetition  of  the  experience 
of  the  preceding  night.  At  dawn  his  mother,  Elspeth,  re 
lieved  him  and  sent  him  to  bed. 

After  the  family  breakfast  Mr.  Campbell  came  in  and 
sent  Elspeth  out  to  get  her  own  coffee  and  muffins.  The 
sick-room  was  still  kept  very  dark  by  the  doctor's  orders. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

Darkness,  he  said,  was  the  best  sedative  for  nerves  and 
brain  in  the  condition  of  Capt.  Montgomery. 

When  the  sick  man  showed  by  moaning  and  moving  un 
easily  that  he  was  awake,  the  rector  took  some  beef  tea 
that  was  kept  hot  over  a  spirit  lamp,  poured  it  into  an  in 
valid's  feeding-glass  and  administered  it  to  the  patient. 

Gentleman  Geff  sucked  it  in  with  a  relish,  and  then  sank 
back  on  his  pillow  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

When  Mr.  Campbell  had  put  away  the  cup  and  returned 
to  his  seat  by  the  bedside  he  was  startled  by  hearing  the 
patient  inquire : 

"Who  the  devil  are  you,  I  wonder?" 

He  answered  calmly,  however: 

"  One  whom  you  should  know,  Capt.  Montgomery.  I  am 
James  Campbell,  rector  of " 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  an  exclamation  from  Gentle 
man  Geff. 

"The  devil  you  say !  The  curate  of  Medge  in  purgatory  L 
a  parson  in  purgatory !  When  did  your  reverence  die  ?" 

The  rector  paused  a  few  moments  before  he  replied,  and 
then  he  spoke  very  quietly : 

"I  am  not  dead,  nor  likely  to  die;  nor  are  you  in  pur 
gatory  as  you  seem  to  think." 

"What!  are  you  living?" 

"Yes,  I  thank  Heaven." 

"And— I  living  also?" 

'"Yes !    And  I  say  thank  Heaven  for  you  also." 

"Where  are  we,  then?"  questioned  the  man  in  a  quaver 
ing  voice. 

But  before  the  rector  could  answer  his  question,  and  even 
while  the  question  was  on  his  lips,  Gentleman  Geff  had 
fainted  into  forgetfulness. 

In  his  struggling  soul,  striving  back  to  consciousness  from 
his  long  stupor,  the  wretched  man  had  been  the  victim  of 
three  several  hallucinations. 

First,  that  he  was  dead  and  buried,  and  while  in  that 
state  he  made  no  sign. 

Second,  that  he  was  in  hell,  'and  then  his  wail  for  water 
and  the  drink  that  was  given  him  dispelled  the  illusion, 
which  was  replaced  by  the  fancy  that  he  was  in  purgatory. 

Now  the  meeting  with  the  living  James  Campbell 


354  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

•cured  him  of  that  delusion  also,  and  left  him  to  one  more 
natural  but  not  the  less  painful. 

When  next  he  awoke  from  temporary  ohlivion  his  brain 
was  clearer  and  his  memory  more  accurate  than  either  had 
yet  been  since  his  illness ;  still,  both  were  somewhat  clouded, 
so  that  they  mixed  up  time  and  space,  and  dreams  and  reali 
ties  in  weird  phantasmagoria. 

For  instance,  he  remembered  every  detail  of  the  two  mur 
ders  he  thought  he  had  committed,  but  not  an  item  of  the 
meeting  with  his  two  intended  victims  living  to  accuse  him, 
not  of  murder,  but  of  attempted  murder. 

And  without  reflecting,  or  being  now  able  to  reflect,  that 
he  could  not  possibly  he  hung  in  England  for  murders  com 
mitted  in  America,  he  now  thought  that  he  was  in  the  con 
demned  cell  of  an  English  prison,  waiting  for  speedy  execu 
tion  ;  that  the  huge  giant  who  loomed  through  the  shadow? 
of  the  prison  was  his  death  watch,  and  that  James  Campbell 
had  come  to  him  in  his  clerical  capacity  to  prepare  him  for 
death. 

"But  T  will  not  allow  him  to  worm  anv  confession  out  of 
me.  I  have  been  convicted  on  the  frailest  circumstantial 
evidence,  and  they  dare  not  hang  me  at  the  last.  I  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  parson.  I  won't  even  know 
him." 

This  was  the  most  coherent  thought  that  Gentleman  Geff 
had  formed  since  he  sank  into  stupor  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Havmore  Hall.  But  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  is 
a  wonderful  stimulant  to  the  brain. 

So  when  James  Campbell  came  next  to  him  he  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall  and  would  not  notice  him. 

When  Longman  came  and  gave  him  food  and  asked  how 
he  felt  he  answered : 

"I  want  to  see  my  lawyer.    Send  him  here." 

Lonsrman,  who  had  been  directed  to  humor  all  his  whims, 
replied : 

"Verv  well,  sir.    He  shall  be  summoned  immediately." 

"And  don't  let  that  parson  come  near  me  again.  I  hate 
parsons.  And  if  he  thinks  he  is  goincr  to  nag  me  into  con- 
iessing  crimes  I  never  even  dreamed  of  committing  he  must 
be  a  much  bigger  fool  than  ever  I  took  him  to  be.  Send  my 
lawyer  to  me,  do  you  hear?" 

"All  right,  sir." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  355 

"Well  then,  why  the  devil  don't  you  do  it?  You  needn't 
keep  such  an  infernal  sharp  lookout  on  me.  I  am  not  going- 
to  commit  suicide,  I  tell  you." 

Longman  laughed  and  left  the  room. 
Gentleman  Geff  turned  with  his  face  to  the  wall  and  tried 
to  'remember  the  details  of  his  supposed  trial — what  the 
lawyers  had  said,  what  "his  honor"  said,  how  he,  the  pris 
oner  at  the  bar,  had  behaved ;  and  then,  failing  to  remember 
anything  of  what  had  never  occurred,  his  diseased  brain 
took  to  imagining  a  whole  drama,  in  which  he  formed  the 
central  figure. 

The  doctor  came  in  the  same  morning,  felt  his  pulse  and 
asked  him  how  he  had  slept. 

"None  the  better  for  you  and  your  quackeries,"  was  the 
reply.  "And  if  I  am  supposed  to  be  sick  enough  to  have  a 
physician,  why  the  devil  am  I  not  sent  to  a  hospital,  and 
not  kept  in  this  wretched  hole?"  he  added,  still  believing 
himself  to  be  in  the  condemned  cell  of  the  Chuxton  jail. 

"Why,  don't  they  treat  you  well  here?"  pleasantly  in 
quired  Dr.  Hobbs. 

But  Gentleman  Geff  disdained  to  reply  and  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall. 

The  doctor  rose  to  take  leave. 

"I  think  the  man  is  getting  along  very  well ;  much  better 
than  I  ever  thought  that  he  would." 

"I  think  he  is  an  ungrateful  beast !"  exclaimed  Longman. 
"Oh,  you  must  not  judge  him  harshly.  His  head  is  not 
clear  yet.  He  does  not  know  friends  from  foes,"  replied  the 
doctor,  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of  Gentleman  Geff's 
criminal  career,  so  well  had  the  secret  been  kept  by  those 
who  possessed  it. 

Longman  did  not  answer  in  words ;  but  his  grim  silence 
was  sufficiently  expressive. 

"And  now  you  may  let  a  little  more  light  in  the  room 
and  give  him  a  more  varied  diet,"  was  the  parting  instruc 
tion  of  the  physician. 

As  soon  as  the  latter  had  gone  and  the  door  closed  behind 
him  Longman  returned  to  the  bedside  of  his  charge. 
Gentleman  Geff  was  sleeping,  or  seemed  to  be  so. 
Longman  went  and  opened  the  shutters  of  one  window, 
but  drew  down  the  white  linen  shade  and  let  fall  the  white 


356  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

lace  curtains.  This  filled  the  chamber  with  a  soft,  subdued 
light. 

Longman  was  getting  to  be  an  experienced  nurse,  and 
knew  that  it  would  not  be  well  to  startle  the  patient,  who 
had  lived  so  long  in  shadows,  with  too  bright  a  light. 

When  he  had  arranged  the  room  to  his  satisfaction  he  re 
sumed  his  seat  at  the  bedside,  and  fell  into  the  reflection 
that,  notwithstanding  all  the  unbelief  and  hardness  of  heart 
that  degrade  this  age.  of  the  world,  there  were  still  some 
good  Christian  people  who  lived  by  the  golden  rule. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  he  was  startled  by  seeing 
Gentleman  Geff  turn  over,  to  the  front  of  the  bed  and  stare 
out  through  the  opening  of  his  festooned  white  curtains. 
His  eyes  took  in  the  soft,  dim  outlines  of  a  moonlight- 
looking  room,  though  it  was  now  really  midday,  and  the 
white  window  shade  'and  the  white  lace  curtains  produced 
the  lunar  effect. 

By  this  soft  effulgence  he  saw  that  the  room  was  very 
spacious,  and  had  four  lace-curtained  windows,  and  a  lovely 
lace-draped  dressing-table,  soft,  white,  dimity-covered  chairs 
and  sofa,  and  pretty  Turkey  rugs  upon  a  polished  yellow 
oak  floor. 

The  richly  carved  marble  mantelpiece,  with  its  large 
mirror,  Sevres  vases  and  terra  cotta  statuettes,  and  the  pol 
ished  steel  stove,  with  its  glowing  but  flameless  fire  of  hard 
coal,  was  hidden  from  his  sight  by  a  tall  Japan  screen. 

Everything  in  the  apartment  bespoke  wealth,  culture  and 
luxury. 

Gentleman  'Geff  stared  until  his  eyes  stood  out  from  their 
sockets.  Then  he  muttered  to  himself : 

"  This  is  not  a  prison  cell,  nor  yet  any  hospital  ward ;  yet 
this  man  sitting  here  must  be  the  same  Giant  Despair  who 
was  with  me  in  jail.  There  can't  be  two  of  that  size  in  the 
same  country." 

Longman  stood  up  and  stooped  over  him,  saying: 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Capt.  Montgomery?" 

"Oh,  it  is  you !  I  thought  there  couldn't  be  two  of  you 
in  the  same  century,  on  the  same  planet." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?" 

" Confound  you!  you  can  explain  things,  I  suppose.  You 
tell  we  "where  the  devil  I  am  now !" 

"You  are  at  the  rectory  of  Haymore  parish,  sir,  where 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  35T 

you  were  brought  on  the  night  of  that  unf  ortunate" — Long 
man  paused  a  moment  for  an  inoffensive  word,  and  then 
added — "disturbance  at  Haymore  Hall." 

"Disturbance — at  Haymore  Hall!"  muttered  the  crim 
inal,  growing  pale  as  ashes  and  sinking  back  upon  his  pil 
low. 

ISTo  revelation  yet  had  struck  him  so  heavily  as  this.  And 
it  brought  back  a  more  exact  memory,  though  not  yet  a  per 
fect  one,  of  the  recent  past. 

Longman  hurried  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  and  re 
turned  with  a  powerful  restorative. 

He  held  Gentleman  Geff  up  on  his  left  arm  while  he  put 
the  draught  to  his  lips  with  his  right  hand. 

The  criminal  drained  the  last  drop,  and  then  sank  down 
upon  his  pillow,  while  Longman  withdrew  his  arm  and  re 
placed  the  empty  glass. 

Gentleman  Geff  did  not  speak  again. 

He  was  possessed  of  a  fear  of  talking,  lest  he  should 
"commit"  himself. 

But  he  now  reflected  the  more,  though  his  deductions 
were  still  confused. 

"No  wonder  I  could  not  remember  the  details  of  my  trial 
— a  trial  that  never  occurred,  but  was  only  a  dream  of 
fever.  But  all  the  same,  if  it  has  not  yet  come  off,  it  is  to 
come,  unless  I  go  !" 

He  laughed  a  little  to  himself  at  this  poor  joke,  and  then 
he  tried  to  recall  the  incidents  of  that  "disturbance"  at 
Haymore  Hall. 

But  he  could  not  think  consecutively  for  many  minutes 
before  his  thoughts  became  entangled,  and  dreams  were 
mingled  with  realities,  and  false  inferences  deduced  from 
the  union. 

"I  remember  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "something  about 
that  row  at  Haymore  Hall,  though  my  illness  must  have 
'  made  some  things  seem  vague  to  me  on  first  recovering  my 
senses.    But  I  remember  now  !" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  words  and  tried  to  marshal  the  facts 
in  their  proper  sequence,  memory  and  imagination  fled,  and 
left  his  mind  a  vacuum  again. 

Some  hours  later,  after  Longman  had  given  him  a  bowl 
of  strong  beef  tea  and  a  glass  of  fine  old  port  wine,  his- 
mental  faculties  rallied  again,  though  feebly,  and  he 


S58  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

thought  he  could  form  a  correct  theory ;  he  would  not  try  to 
get  help  in  doing  this  by  asking  any  question.  He  was  too 
much  afraid  of  compromising  himself  in  some  way. 

"I  do  recall  now,"  he  told  himself,  "the  cause  of  that 
row  at  Haymore  Hall.  Let  me  see 

"I  had  just  arrived  with  my  wife  and  my  brother-in-law 
at  Haymore,  to  take  possession,  when  I  was  met  by  officers 
with  a  warrant  for  my  arrest  on  the  charge  of  murder 

"How  was  that,  now?  Let's  see — oh,  yes!  I  was  ar 
rested  upon  a  warrant,  issued  under  the  extradition  treaty 
with  the  United  States,  charged  with  the  murder  of  Ran 
dolph  Hay  in  California,  and  of  Jennie  Montgomery  in 
New  York " 

Here  the  wretched  man  paused,  shuddered  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  The  horror  of  his  crime  overcame 
him,  as  it  had  so  often  done,  when  it  drove  him  to  seek 
oblivion  in  strong  drink,  and  finally  made  hm  a  drunkard. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  resume  his-  line  of 
thought. 

"I  know,"  he  mused  at  length,  "that  I  denied  the  charge 
and  resisted  the  arrest,  and  that  there  was  a  fight.  One  of 
the  officers  clubbed  me — on  the  head — and  I  fell  like  an 
ox,  and  knew  no  more.  When  I  came  to  myself  I  was 
lying  here." 

He  paused  again,  and  seemed  to  labor  to  understand  his 
present  position. 

"How  came  I  to  be  here?"  he  inquired  of  himself;  and 
after  a  few  minutes  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  I  know!  I  see  it  all  now!  I  had  given  the  living 
of  Haymore  to  my  brother-in-law,  Cassius  Leegh — the 
scoundrel !  When  I  was  brained  by  the  club  of  that  con 
stable,  of  course  I  was  more  a  dead  than -a  living  man,  and 
in  no  condition  to  be  carted  off  ten  miles  to  the  Chuxton 
jail !  So  I  was  placed  under  arrest  and  brought  here  in 
charge  of  constables.  And  here  I  am  in  my  brother-in- 
law's  rectory,  guarded  by  officers,  and  particularly  by  that 
Giant  Gerion,  who  never  leaves  me,  night  or  day — set  fire 
to  him!" 

Gentleman  Geff  moaned  and  groaned  and  tossed  until 
Longman  brought  him  a  glass  of  milk  punch,  which  seemed 
to  soothe  him. 

Then  he  resumed  his  self-communings : 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  359 

"I  wonder,  since  I  am  in  his  rectory,  which  was  also  my 
gift  to  him,  why  I  never  see  Cassius  Leegh  ?  And  I  wonder 
where  his  sister,  my  bogus  wife,  is?  And,  more  than  all, 
I  wonder  now — what  brings  James  Campbell  here?" 

He  paused  in  distress,  and  then  moaned  to  himself: 

"I  give  it  up !  I  give  it  up  !  It  is  all  past  me !  'Chaos 
has  come  again/  But  one  thing  is  clear,  even  in  chaos — 
that  is,  I  must  escape  from  this  house,  I  must  not  wait  to 
bo  taken  to  jail,  as  I  should  be  as  soon  as  the  doctor  has 
pronounced  me  well  enough  to  be  removed/' 

He  thought  as  intensely  as  he  was  capable  of  thinking, 
and  then  suddenly  formed  a  plan. 

"I  will  not  get  well  enough  to  be  removed  while  I  stay 
here,  and  I  will  escape  from  the  house  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity." 

From  this  day  the  patient  became  a  puzzle  to  his  physi 
cian  as  well  as  to  his  attendants.  He  did  not  seem  to  gain 
in  strength,  but  to  grow  weaker  and  more  helpless  every 
day ;  notwithstanding  that  his  appetite  was  good.  At  night 
he  was  restless  and  delirious. 

"I  confess  that  this  case  perplexes  me,"  Dr.  Hobbs  ad 
mitted  to  Mr.  Campbell. 

But  the  case  grew  out  of  a  misunderstanding  between  the 
patient  and  his  attendants. 

Gentleman  Geff,  not  quite  in  his  right  mind  yet,  believed 
himself  to  be  under  arrest  with  the  prospect  of  a  prison,  a 
trial  and  conviction  before  him;  whereas  there  was  no  in 
tention  on  any  one's  part  of  even  making  an  accusation 
against  him. 

His  physician  and  watchers,  not  knowing  the  delusion 
under  which  he  silently  and  fearfully  suffered,  could  not 
suspect  him  of  playing  a  part  to  prolong  his  sojourn  at  the 
rectory  and  postpone  his  transfer  to  the  prison. 

This  state  of  things  continued  for  a  week.  There  had 
been  in  this  time  two  opportunities  for  Gentleman  Geff  to 
escape — for,  after  all,  he  was  not  watched  as  a  criminal,  but 
only  as  an  invalid.  There  had  been  two  occasions  on  which 
he  had  been  left  alone  for  an  hour  or  two;  but  on  both 
these  the  weather*  had  been  terrific  with  wind,  snow  and 
sleet,  and  he  waited  for  weather  and  oportunity  both  to 
favor  him  together. 

But  one  morning,  after  he  had  eaten  a  good  breakfast 


360  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

lain  back  on  his  pillow,  and  pretended  to  fall  into  a  stupor, 
as  usual,  when  the  doctor  was  expected,  something  occurred 
that  frightened  him  and  hurried  his  operations. 

The  doctor  came,  accompanied  on  this  occasion  by  Mr. 
Campbell,  who  did  not  often  intrude  his  unwelcome  pres 
ence  into  the  sick-room. 

The  doctor  leaned  over  the  bed  and  inquired : 

"How  are  you,  Capt.  Montgomery?" 

There  was  no  response. 

The  doctor  then  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  man's  shoul 
der  to  enforce  his  attention  and  inquired : 

"How  are  you,  sir?" 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

Then  the  doctor  examined  his  pulse,  temperature  and 
respiration,  and  even  lifted  the  eyelids  and  looked  at  the 
eyes. 

Then  he  turned  to  Mr.  Campbell  and  said: 

"I  feel  like  giving  up  the  case.  I  honestly  confess  I  can 
make  nothing  of  it.  The  man's  appetite,  digestion  and  as 
similation  are  excellent.  His  pulse  is  strong,  his  tempera 
ture  normal,  his  respiration  perfect,  and  yet  he  seems  too 
weak  to  leave  his  bed,  and  he  falls  into  delirium  or  stupor 
day  and  night." 

"Pray  do  not  give  up  the  case,  doctor.  If  there  is  any 
one  you  would  like  to  have  called  in  consultation  now " 

The  rector  paused. 

"Well,  yes,  sir,  there  is.  Sir  Ichabod  Ingoldsby,  the 
great  authority  on  the  diseases  of  the  brain  and  nervous 
system.  And  to  get  him  from  London  to  the  North  Eiding 
of  Yorkshire  would  cost  at  least  two  hundred  pounds,  even 
should  his  engagements  permit  him  to  come." 

"Never  mind  what  it  costs,  we  will  send  for  him.  The 
young  squire  has  specially  enjoined  me  to  spare  no  expense, 
as  he  insists  on  footing  all  the  bills.  Give  me  Sir  Ichabod 
Ingoldsby's  address.  I  will  telegraph  him  at  once.  If  his 
engagements  will  permit  he  may  be  here  this  afternoon." 

"  Scarcely  this  afternoon.  He  will  have  to  make  arrange 
ments.  Besides,  he  always  travels  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
to  save  time.  If  all  should  go  well  we  may  see  him  to 
morrow  morning.  Here  is  his  address,"  said  Dr.  Hobbs, 
and  he  tore  a  leaf  from  his  tablets  and  handed  it  to  the  rec 
tor.  Then  both  gentlemen  left  the  room. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  361 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  FLIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

GENTLEMAN"  GEFF  had  heard  every  word  spoken  by  the 
doctor  and  the  rector.  He  dared  not  wait  the  inspection  of 
the  skilled  London  specialist,  the  great  court  physician, 
who  would  be  sure  to  detect  the  deception  so  successfully 
imposed  upon  the  simple  country  practitioner. 

The  eminent  Sir  Ichabod  Ingoldsby  might  arrive  the  next 
morning.  Then  he — Montgomery — must  escape  this  very 
'day  or  night,  let  the  weather  be  what  it  might.  Any  risk 
rather  than  the  certainty  of  detection  and  of  all  the  horrors 
that  must  follow. 

And  the  weather  was  simply  awful — "Ragnarok" — "the 
darkness  of  the  gods."  The  snow  had  fallen  all  the  preced 
ing  night  and  all  that  day.  Although  there  were  four  win 
dows  in  the  sick-room,  and  all  the  shutters  were  open,  ye$ 
such  was  the  obscurity  that  the  lamps  had  been  lighted. 

Gentleman  Geff  was  not  alone  until  evening,  when  Long 
man,  having  served  an  excellent  supper  to  his  charge  and 
left  the  latter  comfortably  laid  back  on  his  pillow,  in  what 
the  nurse  supposed  to  be  a  safe  and  sound  sleep,  withdrew 
from  the  room  to  take  his  meal  and  refresh  himself  by  a 
walk  up  and  down  the  covered  front  piazza,  and  no  one  took 
the  watcher's  place. 

This  was  Gentleman  Geff's  golden  opportunity,  not  to  be 
lost. 

He  got  out  of  bed  on  tiptoes  and  went  and  bolted  the 
door. 

Then  he  went  to  the  closet  to  search  for  clothes  to  put  on, 
if  perchance  he  might  find  any. 

He  found  his  own  suit  that  had  been  taken  off  him  on  the 
night  he  was  brought  to  the  rectory  and  put  to  bed,  and  in 
the  pocket  of  his  coat  his  portemonnaie,  well  filled  as  it  had 
been. 

They  were  all  there,  even  to  his  boots,  his  socks,  his  ulster 
and  his  hat.  He  began  to  dress  himself  in  great  haste,  but 
suddenly  grew  very  tired,  for  though  not  nearly  so  weak  as 
he  pretended  to  be,  he  was  not  strong. 

He  went  to  the  buffet,  where  he  knew  Longman  kept  his 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

wine  and  medicine,  and  found  a  bottle  of  good  old  port.  He 
unstopped  it,  put  the-  mouth  to  his  lips  and  took  a  long ' 
draught,  then  a  dep  breath  and  another  long  draught,  re 
peated  the  process,  and — thought  he  would  take  the  bottle 
along  with  him  in  his  flight. 

He  finished  dressing  himself  without  further  fatigue,  put 
the  bottle  of  wine  in-  the  pocket  of  his  ulster,  and  went  to 
the  window  overlooking  the  back  garden  of  the  rectory. 

Escape  from  the  room  was  safe  and  easy,  as  this  was  the 
parlor  chamber  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  house. 

The  window  opened,  but  with  a  sudden  thought  he  turned 
back  and  put  out  the  lights  and  locked  as  well  as  bolted  the 
door.  These  precautions  he  thought  were  necessary  to  delay 
the  discovery  of  his  flight. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  window  and  stepped  through  it, 
closing  it  behind  him. 

Where  now? 

To  the  Chuxton  railway  station  and  on  to  London,  to 
lose  himself  in  that  great  wilderness  of  human  beings  until 
he  could  take  ship  to  some  foreign  country  with  which  there 
was  no  extradition  treaty. 

But  what  a  night  it  was !  Dark  as  pitch  but  for  the  spec 
tral  light  of  the  snow.  The  snow  was  still  falling  heavily 
as  ever,  but  the  wind  had  risen  in  mighty  strength  and  was 
driving  not  only  the  falling  but  the  fallen  snow  into  drifts. 

If  he  had  bat  a  lantern  !  But  that  was  an  impossible  con 
venience  to.  him. 

He  drew  the  bottle  from  his  pocket,  took  another  long 
draught  from  it,  replaced  it,  and  set  out  through  "night  and 
storm  and  darkness"  and  bitterest  cold  on  his  flight  for  life. 

More  by  instinct  or  accident  than  by  light  and  knowledge 
he  found  his  way  around  the  back  wall  of  the  rectory  garden 
to  that  country  road  which  ran  in  front  of  the  church,  the 
rectory  and  Haymore  Park,  and  crossed  the  highroad  at 
about  a  mile  distant. 

The  snow  fell  thicker  and  faster,  the  wind  rose  higher  and 
stronger,  and  the  night  grew  colder  and  darker. 

He  plunged  onward  through  the  deepening  snow,  some 
times  almost  smothered  in  the  drifts,  and  requiring  all  the 
strength  he  could  muster  to  struggle  out  of  them. 

He  lost  his  way,  as  it  was  inevitable  he  should.  Even 
had  it  been  day,  instead  of  the  darkest  night  that  ever  fell 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  363 

i 

upon  the  earth,  the  highroad  could  not  have  been  distin 
guished  from  the  meadows  except  by  certain  tall  landmarks. 
Now  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  it. 

Gentleman  Geff  knew  that  he  had.  lost  his  way,  had  hope 
lessly  lost  it,  yet  he  floundered  on  through  the  black  chaos 
on  the  chance  of  coming  to  some  place  where  he  could  find 
shelter  from  the  bitter  cold,  the'  beating  wind,  the  bottom 
less  drifts  and  the  tempest  of  driving  snow  that  seemed  to 
be  turned  to  a  shower  of  ice  spikes  and  stung  like  the  sting 
of  wasps. 

On  and  on  he  floundered  and  struggled,  not  daring  to 
stop,  for  to  stop  would  be  to  die. 

Again  and  again  he  applied  himself  to  his  bottle  until 
it  was  empty.  Tlien  he  let  it  fall,  for  indeed  his  numbed 
hands  could  scarcely  hold  it. 

He  grew  weaker  and  weaker ;  his  limbs  seemed  too  heavy 
to  lift,  especially  through  deep  snow ;  his  brain  grew  dizzy, 
his  mind  confused.  He  tried  to  keep  his  senses  and  his  feet ; 
he  felt  that  if  he  sank  to  the  ground  it  must  be  into  his 
grave. 

At  length  the  crisis  came ;  his  brain  reeled,  his  limbs  gave 
way,  he  lost  consciousness  and  fell  to  the  earth. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  rectory,  Longman  took  his  supper  with 
his  mother  in  their  warm,  bright  sitting-room  adjoining  the 
kitchen,  everything  around  them  looking  so  much  more 
comfortable  in  contrast  to  the  storm  raging  without. 

"I  pity  any  poor  wayfarer  abroad  to-night,"  said  Elspeth 
as  she  took  the  steaming  coffee  pot  from  the  hob  of  the 
glowing  grate  and  set  it  on  the  table,  little  guessing  that 
the  poor  wretch  they  had  been  taking  care  of  for  two  months 
was  just  setting  out  to  brave  it  at  its  worst. 

"Oh,  this  is  bad  enough,  but  it  is  nothing  at  all  to  the 
awful  storms  among  the  Sierra  Nevadas,"  said  Longman  as 
he  sat  down  to  the  table  and  took  the  cup  01  coffee  his 
mother  had  poured  out  for  him. 

And  on  her  expressing  her  surprise  and  wonder,  he  began 
to  entertain  her  with  marrow-freezing  stories  of  over 
whelmed  trains  of  emigrant  wagons  and  buried  villages  of 
settlers  among  the  snow  mountains. 

This  delayed  him  at  the  supper  table  so  much  longer 
than  usual  that  he  had  but  little  time  to  take  his  "con 
stitutional"  on  the  covered  front  piazza.  i 


364  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

So  after  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  he  went  into  the 
house  and  up  to  the  door  of  the  sick-room. 

He  turned  the  knoh  and  pushed  the  door,  hut  found  it 
was  locked  within. 

"What  whim  is  this,  I  wonder?"  he  said.  "I  hope  the 
London  doctor  will  order  the  beast  to  an  idiot  asylum.  I 
suppose  they  wouldn't  take  him  in  with  the  apes  at  the  Zoo. 
Captain!  Capt.  Montgomery !"  he  exclaimed,  rapping 
loudly. 

Not  a  sound  from  within. 

Then  he  went  around  to  the  back  piazza  and  looked 
through  the  windows. 

All  as  dark  as  pitch  in  the  room. 

"What's  up  now,  I  wonder?"  he  asked  himself,  and  then 
went  back  to  the  door  and  tried  once  more  by  rapping  and 
calling  to  bring  some  response  from  the  room. 

But  now  the  noise  reached  the  rector,  who  was  seated  at 
his  desk  in  his  study  writing  his  sermon. 

He  laid  down  his  pen  and  came  into  the  hall,  where  he 
found  Longman  still  hammering  and  calling. 

"What  is  the  matter  now,  Longman?"  inquired  the  rec 
tor. 

"  This  door  is  fastened  from  within,  sir,  and  I  can  neither 
get  into  the  room  nor  make  him  hear  me,"  replied  the  man. 

Of  course,  unreasonable  as  it  was  to  try  the  experiment  in 
which  the  giant  had  failed,  the  rector  said: 

"Let  me  try!" 

Longman  gave  way. 

The  rector  rapped  a  little  cannonade  upon  the  door  and 
shouted : 

"Capt.  Montgomery!" 

He  might  as  well  have  shouted : 

"Jupiter  Tonnerres!"  to  the  snowstorm  for  any  good 
effect. 

"Shall  I  burst  the  door  open,  sir?"  inquired  Longman. 

"No." 

"I  wonder  what  the  fellow  is  up  to  now !"  said  Longman. 

"Heaven  knows!"  sighed  the  rector. 

"Will  I  break  the  door  open,  sir?"  again  asked  Longman. 

"No,  you  may  bring  me  a  common  table  knife  with  the 
thinnest  blade  you  can  find,  and  come  with  me  to  the  back 
piazza." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  365 

They  left  the  door,  and  a  few  minutes  later  met  under 
the  very  window  by  which  the  fugitive  had  made  his  escape, 
after  re-closing  the  shutters  that  fastened  with  a  spring 
catch  behind  him. 

"Now  with  this  knife  I  know  how  to  loosen  the  catches," 
said  the  rector;  and  he  laid  the  blade  of  the  knife  flat  on  the 
stone  sill,  slipped  it  under  the  catch,  and  so  opened  the 
shutters.  Then  he  slipped  the  knife  between  the  upper  and 
lower  sash  of  the  window  and  turned  the  button  and  so 
raised  the  sash. 

"That  is  a  very  badly  secured  window  in  case  of  bur 
glars,"  remarked  Longman. 

"Yes,  but  you  see  there  are  no  burglars  around  Haymore. 
However,  I  do  intend  to  have  a  bolt  put  on  these  shutters," 
said  the  rector,  and  he  stepped  through  the  window  into 
the  room,  closely  followed  by  Longman. 

All  was  dark  as  pitch  but  for  the  dull  glow  of  the  coal 
fire  in  the  grate. 

They  knew  it  was  utterly  useless  to  call,  yet  both  at  the 
same  moment  cried  out: 

"Capt.  Montgomery!    Where  are  you?" 

No  answer  came. 

Longman  took  a  match  from  the  safe  on  the  mantelpiece, 
kindled  it  at  the  fire  and  lighted  the  astral. 

The  room  was  illuminated  in  an  instant,  and  every  nook 
and  cranny  clearly  visible.  Yet  no  sign  of  the  missing  man. 
Longman  hastened  to  the  bed,  from  which  he  drew  the  cur 
tains.  It  was  vacant. 

"He  has  run  away,  sir.  The  fraud,  who  pretended  to  be 
so  helpless  that  he  couldn't  hold  a  glass  to  his  lips,  has  been 
playing  it  on  us  all  this  time,  as  I  suspected  him  of  doing 
all  along,  and  now  he  has  run  away!"  said  Longman. 

"Oh,  I  think  not.  Why  should  he  deceive  us?  Why 
should  he  run  off  ?  No  one  was  going  to  harm  him,"  said 
the  rector,  still  peering  around  the  room  as  if  he  expected  to 
find  Gentleman  Geff  in  some  nook  or  corner. 

"He  mightn't  have  felt  so  sure  of  that,  sir.  A  guilty 
conscience,  you  know." 

"I  cannot  think  but  what  he  has  gone  off  in  a  fit  of  vio 
lent  mania." 

"Then,  in  that  case,  he  would  have  gone  in  his  night 
clothes,  just  as  he  jumped  out  of  bed;  but  here  are  the 


366  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

empty  shelves  and  pegs,,  with  every  article  of  his  wearing 
apparel  gone,"  said  Longman,  coming  out  of  the  closet 
which  he  had  been  examining.  "And  why  should  he  take 
pains  to  lock  and  bolt  the  door,  and  put  out  the  light  so  as 
to  retard  the  discovery  of  his.  flight  as  long  as  possible  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Lunatics  are  well  known  to  be  very 
cunning.  But,  Longman,  he  must  be  instantly  followed  and 
found,  if  possible.  Oh,  heavens !  Think  of  the-  man  being 
out  on  such  a  night  as  this !  He  will  surely  perish,"  said 
the  rector.  And  he  hurriedly  unfastened  the,  door,  rushed 
out  into  the  passage,  took  his  storm  cloak  from  the  rack 
and  his  hat  from  its  peg,  and  while  he  nervously  prepared 
himself  to  brave  the  tempest  he  called  out  again  to  the 
hunter : 

"Longman!  For  Heaven's  sake  get  on  your  coat  and 
find  a  lantern  and  come  with  me.  There  is  no  one  but  you 
and  me  to  go  in  search  of  this  wretched  man,  whom  we  must 
not  leave  to  perish  in  the  snow." 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  rector  had  ceased  to  speak,  Long 
man  was  by  his  side,  prepared  for  the  expedition. 

"He  must  have  escaped  by  that  back  window,  which  is 
the  only  one  that  will  close  with  springs.  We  must  search 
the  road  leading  for  the  back  gate  of  the  garden.  Come," 
said  the  rector,  going  before  with  the  lighted  lantern,  which 
he  had  taken  from  the  hand  of  Longman. 

They  issued  through  the  rear  door,  passed  through  the 
garden  and  out  of  the  rear  gate. 

Holding  the  lantern  near  the  ground  the  rector  moved 
slowly  and  carefully  through. the  white  chaos. 

The  searchers  had  not  groped  many  yards  from  the  rec 
tory  gate  when  Mr.  Campbell  saw  something  black  upon 
the  white  ground. 

He  stooped  to  examine  it,  and  cried  out : 

"Here  he  is,  Longman;  but  whether  dear  or  alive,  poor 
wretch,  I  do  not  know.  Come  and  help  me  to  lift  him." 

"He  has  not  been  lying  here  five  minutes,  or  he  would 
be  covered  with  snow.  So  he  may  not  be  dead." 

Yes.  they  had  found  the  body  of  Gentleman  Geff  within 
fifty  yards  of  the  rectory  wall. 

Through  the  dark  night  and  blinding  snow  and  distract 
ing  wind  he  had  lost  his  reckoning  and  wandered  in  a  circle 
until  he  had  fallen  down  where  they  found  him. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  367 

They  lifted  him  up  and  bore  him  into  the  rectory  to  his 
own  room,  undressed  him,  wrapped  him  in  blankets,  and 
put  him  to  bed. 

He  was  in  the  deep  sleep  that  precedes  death  by  freezing. 
lie  only  partially  awoke  while  they  were  working  over  him  • 
but  he  did  not  speak. 

They  gave  him  warm  spiced  brandy  and  water,  which  he 
swallowed  mechanically. 

All  night  long  they  watched  and  worked  over  him. 
In  the  morning,  when  James  Campbell  left  he  sick-room 
to  make  his  toilet  before  going  to  breakfast,  he  left  Gentle 
man  (reft  in  what  seemed  a  good  sleep. 

But,  while  he  sat  at  table  explaining  to  his  wife  and 
daughter  why  he  had  been  out  of  his  room  all  night,  Long 
man  suddenly  burst  in  upon  them  and  said : 

'Come  in,  for  Heaven's  sake!  He  is  taken  with  a  hem 
orrhage  that  I  think  will  carry  him  off!" 

''Longman    run  and  fetch  Dr.  Hobbs.     Mrs.  Campbell 
and  myself  will  attend  to  Montgomery." 
m  The  hunter  fled  out  of  the  front  door  to  fetch  the  physi 
cian,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell  rushed  to  the  help  of 
tne  sufferer. 

It  was  an  appalling  spectacle ! 

The  blood  driven  by  the  freezing  cold  to  the  lungs  had 
congested  there,  and  notwithstanding  all  the  means  that 
nad  been  taken  to  restore  his  consciousness  and  save  his 
lite,  though  these  means  had  been  thus  far  successful  yet 
the  congestion  of  the  lungs  had  increased  until  it  burst  an 
artery  and  the  hemorrhage  followed.  It  was  not  fatal  all  at 
once,  for  Mr  and  Mrs.  Campbell  called  all  their  skill  and 
experience  into  service  and  succeeded  in  stopping  the  flow 
betore  the  arrival  of  the  doctor. 

When  the  latter  came  to  the  bedside  of  the  patient  he 
found  him  laid  back  on  his  bed,  as  pale  as  death,  as  weak  as 
beatm  *  m  and  SCarce1^  breathing,  his  pulse  scarcely 

Dr.  Hobbs  approved  all  the  rector  had  done  and  then 
inquired : 

||  Did  you  get  an  answer  from  Sir  Ichabod  In^oldsby  ?» 
.  Yes,  by  telegram.     He  cannot  leave  London  at  'this 
crisis. 

"Well,  it  does  not  matter  now.    This  is  a  case  that  any 


368  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

country  doctor  or  any  old  woman  might  understand  and 
treat." 

''What  do  you  think  of  his  chance  of  life?"  whispered  the 
rector. 

"It  is  a  poorer  one  than  he  has  yet  had,"  replied  the  doc 
tor,  looking  at  the  pallid,  wizen  face,  that  seemed  to  have 
shrunken  to  half  its  size  since  his  terrible  loss  of  blood. 

Hetty  cried  for  pity. 

"If  he  has  any  relatives  they  should  be  informed,  for  I  do 
not  tli ink  he  will  ever  rise  from  that  bed  again."  said  Dr. 
Hobbs. 

"I  know  of  none,  except  the  Earl  of  Engelmeed  and  the 
Viscount  Stoors — his  uncle  and  his  cousin.  I  will  write  to 
the  earl  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Campbell. 

"Engclmccd,  of  Engelwode,  in  Cumberland?  That  is 
where  typhoid  fever  is  raging  so  fiercely,"  remarked  Dr. 
Hobbs. 

Here  followed  some  talk  of  that  pestilence,  and  finally 
the  doctor  arose  and  took  his  leave,  promising  to  return  in 
the  afternoon. 

Mr.  Campbell  wrote  to  the  Earl  of  Engelmeed,  advising 
him  of  his  nephew's  dangerous  illness,  and  posted  the  letter 
that  forenoon. 

Two  days  later  he  got  a  reply,  not  from  the  earl,  but 
from  the  latter's  steward,  announcing  the  death  of  the  Vis 
count  Stoors  and  the  extreme  illness  of  Lord  Engelmeed, 
whose  death  was  hourly  expected. 

Over  this  letter  the  rector  fell  into  deep  thought. 

Then  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  taking  the  letter 
with  him,  walked  over  to  Haymore  Hall. 

He  was  shown  into  the  library,  where  he  found  Ran 
reading. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Hay.  Will  you  let  me  look  at  your 
'Burke's  Peerage'  for  a  moment?" 

"Certainly.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Campbell?  And  how 
is  your  family — and  your  patient?"  inquired  Ean  as  he 
arose  and  shook  hands  with  the  rector,  and  then  went  to  the 
bookcase  and  took  down  the  "Peerage." 

"The  family  is  well.  The  invalid  very  low.  I  received 
a  letter  from  the  steward  of  Engelwode  this  morning,  in  an 
swer  to  the  one  I  wrote  to  the  earl,  informing  me  of  the 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  369 

death  of  the  Viscount  Stoors  and  the  extreme  illness  of 
Lord  Engelmeed,  whose  demise  was  then  hourly  expected." 

"Indeed !    Had  they  taken  the  fever?" 

"Yes.  It  was  madness  for  them  to  remain  at  Engelwode 
during  its  prevalence.  It  is  from  hearing  of  these  occur 
rences  that  I  wish  to  consult  Burke.  I  think  that  since  the 
death  of  Lord  Stoors,  our  wretch,  Montgomery,  is  heir  pre 
sumptive  to  the  title  and  estate,"  said  the  rector  as  he  took 
the  heavy  red  volume  from  the  hands  of  the  young  squire, 
laid  it  on  the  library  table,  and  sat  down  to  examine  it. 

Ran  resumed  his  seat. 

"It  is  as  I  thought.  There  is  no  other  son.  And  Kightly 
Montgomery,  as  the  eldest  son  of  the  next  brother,  the  late 
Gen.  Montgomery,  is  heir  presumptive  to  the  earldom,  and 
may  even  now  be  Earl  of  Engelmeed.  Think  of  it!"  ex 
claimed  the  rector  as  he  closed  the  book.  "Wealth  and  rank, 
for  which  the  wretched  man  periled  his  soul  and  fatally 
wrecked  his  life  to  obtain  feloniously,  now  come  to  him 
lawfully  and  honorably,  but  on  his  deathbed!" 

"Yes,  it  is  terrible.  If  he  had  but  waited !  Now  it  seems 
the  iron  of  fate — this  useless  accession  to  fortune!"  sighed 
Ran. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

WINDING  UP 

EAN  and  Judy  had  planned  to  go  to  London  in  the 
spring,  to  live  in  retirement  and  to  pursue  their  studies  un 
der  private  tutors.  But  as  the  season  opened  in  all  its 
beauty  they  became  so  enchanted  with  their  delightful 
country  home  that  they  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  leav 
ing  it. 

"Couldn't  we  have  a  resident  tutor?"  inquired  Ran  with 
some  hesitation  as  he  and  Judy  were  discussing  the  ques 
tion  one  morning,  seated  on  a  rustic  bench  under  an  old  oak 
tree  in  their  lovely  lawn. 

"  CA  resident  tutor  ?'  "  repeated  Judy  dubiously. 

"Yes,  such  as  the  gentry  have  for  their  children." 

"  Tor  their  children/  of  course,  but  not  for  grown  peo- 


370  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

pie ;  not  for  themselves.  No,  Ran,  dear,  we  could  not  have 
a  resident  tutor  for  you  and  me.  That  would  set  the  serv 
ants  to  talking  and  the  neighbors  to  gossiping;  and  they 
would  wonder  where  we  had  been  brought  up,  perhaps  laugh 
at  us,  perhaps  scorn  us.  I  should  not  mind  it  for  myself, 
Ean,  but  I  should  mind  it  a  great  deal  for  you." 

"That  is  not  the  way  I  feel,  Judy,  dear,  for  I  do  not  care 
a  fig  what  they  say  of  me,  but  I  could  not  bear  to  have  them 
criticise  you." 

"So,  you  see,  Ran,  we  could  not  have  a  resident  tutor." 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go  and  hide  ourselves  in 
London  to  pursue  our  studies,  Judy,  dear." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  woman  with  a  deep  sigh,  "but 
mightn't  we  put  off  going  until  winter  ?  Oh,  it  is  so  hard 
to  leave  this  lovely  place  in  the  glory  of  the  spring." 

"Judy,  love,  time  is  passing  quickly,  and  our  education  is 
very  backward." 

"Especially  mine,"  sighed  Judy. 

"But  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do !"  exclaimed  Ran  with  sud 
den  inspiration.  "I  will  confide  the  whole  matter  to  Mr. 
Campbell,  and  take  counsel  with  him." 

"The  very  thing !  And,  oh,  Ran !"  exclaimed  Judy,  catch 
ing  inspiration  in  her  turn,  "might  he  not  become  our 
tutor?  Give  us  an  hour  three  or  four  times  a  week?" 

Ran  fell  into  thought,  but  did  not  reply. 

"I  have  so  often  heard  of  clergymen  taking  pupils.  Even 
taking  them  in  their  houses.  But  he  need  not  do  that. 
Could  he  not  come  to  us  or  let  us  go  to  him  a  few  times 
every  week?" 

"I  declare,  Judy,  darling,  that  is  a  splendid  idea  of  yours, 
and  I  will  n?k  him,  and  if  he  should  consent  to  do  as  we 
wish,  why,  then,  we  need  not  bother  ourselves  about  going  to 
London  to  hide  ourselves  and  look  for  teachers !"  exclaimed 
Ean  in  delight. 

"And  then  there  need  be  no  gossip.  No  one  need  know 
what  brings  the  rector  to  our  library  or  takes  us  to  his 
study,"  concluded  Judy. 

"I  will  go  and  see  Mr.  Campbell  at  once,"  exclaimed  Ran, 
with  boyish  eagerness,  as  he  sprang  up,  seized  his  hat  from 
the  ground  and  set  off  in  a  brisk  walk  for  the  rectory. 

But  he  met  the  rector  full  tilt  at  the  lodge  gate,  as  Mr. 
Campbell  was  on  his  way  to  make  a  call  at  the  house. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  S71 

They  both  burst  out  laughing  as  they  came  into  collision, 
and  the  minister  took  Ran's  arm,  turned  him  about  and 
walked  with  him  back  to  the  rustic  seat  where  Judy  sat. 

She  rose  to  welcome  the  visitor  and  to  make  room  for 
him  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"Good-morning,  ma'am,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat  and  tak 
ing  the  offered  seat.  "We  have  lovelv  weather  just  now.  It 
must  be  lovely  even  in  London.  In  fact,  there  is  always  de 
lightful  weather  in  London  during  May,  when  the  season 
is  at  its  height.  Do  you  leave  for  town  soon?" 

"Oh,,  I  hope  not.  I  never,  never,  never  wish  to  leave 
for  town,"  said  Judy,  with  a  genuine  pout. 

"I  am  sure  I  wish  you  never  would,"  laughed  Mr.  Camp 
bell.  "But  I  thought  you  were  daily  expecting  to  start," 
he  added,  turning  to  Ran. 

"So  we  have  been;  but  we  have  postponed  our  departure 
from  day  to  day,  from  reluctance  to  leave  the  country,"  re 
plied  the  young  man. 

"But  the  height  of  the  season  will  soon  be  over.  The 
weather  will  grow  warm  and  London  intolerable.  Much 
as  I  should  desire  for  my  own  sake  to  detain  you  here,  I 
should  advise  you  not  to  delay  your  departure." 

"  But  we  don't  want  to  go  at  all !  And  we  were  not  going 
for  the  sake  of  the  season,  anyhow.  And  it  depends  on  you, 
Mr.  Campbell,  whether  we  go  or  not!"  exclaimed  Judy,  tak 
ing  the  initiative  and  breaking  right  into  the  midst  of  the 
matter. 

"On  me,  Mrs.  Hay !"  inquired  Mr.  Campbell,  with  a  puz 
zled  air. 

"Ran,  tell  him!"  commanded  Judy. 

And  then  Randolph  Hay  confided  to  James  Campbell  the 
story  of  his  own  and  Judy's  neglected  education,  and  their 
plans  for  remedying  their  defects,  and  ended  by  diffidently 
proposing  that  the  minister  should,  if  he  pleased,  become 
the  director  of  their  studies. 

"I  fear  that  my  petition  is  a  most  presumptuous  one,  sir; 
but  I  hope  and  trust  that  you  will  not  consider  it  offensive. 
If  so,  I  pray  you  to  pardon  me." 

"  My  young  friend,  on  the  contrary,  your  proposal  is  both 
flattering  and  agreeable.  I  shall  gladly  and  gratefully  un 
dertake  the  task  for  which  circumstances  as  well  as,  I  hope, 
college  training,  have  fitted  me." 


372  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  Mr.  Campbell.  You 
have  made  everything  smooth  and  pleasant  for  us,"  heartily 
responded  Ran. 

Judy  caught  the-  minister's  hand,  pressed  it  between  both 
hers,  and  so  expressed  her  gratitude. 

Later  all  the  details  of  the  engagement  were  arranged  be 
tween  the  minister  and  his  pupils. 

On  Ran's  pressing  entreaty,  Mr.  Campbell  consented  to 
stay  and  dine  with  them  that  day.  And  it  was  during  his 
visit  that  the  evening  rnail  brought  them  foreign  letters 
from  Clcve  Stuart,  with  the  news  of  his  Uncle  John  Cleve's 
death. 

"A  good  man  gone  to  his  rest,"  was  the  comment  of  the 
clergyman. 

The  news  of  death — even  of  the  death  of  a  stranger  whom 
we  only  knew  by  report — always  casts  a  shadow,  for  a  longer 
or  a  shorter  time,  over  the  circle  into  which  it  is  brought. 

Bright  Judy  was  the  first  to  smile  and  dispel  the  cloud. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Campbell,  it  is  so  well  that  you  have  con 
sented  to  take  pity  on  us,  for  under  present  circumstances 
we  could  not  leave  Haymore,"  she  said. 

The  minister  raised  his  brows  interrogatively. 

"Because  we  must  write  and  ask  our  friends  to  come  and 
spend  the  summer  with  us  here." 

"  Ah !    I  understand,"  said  the  rector. 

"Your  patient  lingers  longer  than  any  of  us  expected," 
remarked  Ran. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Campbell,  "his  tenacity  of  life  is 
really  wonderful,  poor  soul !" 

And  he  arose  and  bade  his  hosts  good-night. 

Gentleman  Geff  lay  slowly  sinking  at  the  rectory  of  Hay- 
more. 

The  cold  contracted  on  that  fatal  winter  night  of  his  at 
tempted  flight  had  settled  on  his  lungs,  and  in  the  deeply 
inflamed  condition  of  the  whole  system  from  alcoholism, 
had  fastened  with  fatal  tenacity  upon  his  system. 

But  with  the  change  in  the  seat  of  the  disease — which, 
while  it  slowly  destroyed  his  lungs,  completely  relieved  his 
brain — his  mental  faculties  were  perfectly  restored,  with 
clear  recollection  of  all  that  had  transpired,  so  that  he  knew 
his  antecedants  and  his  present  surroundings  quite  as  well 
as  our  readers  do.  He  knew  also  that  he  had  no  reason  to 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  373 

fear  prosecution.  His  only  fear — a  secret  one — was  of 
death,  "and  after  death  the  judgment." 

He  had  not  been  prosecuted  for  any  of  his  felonies,  which, 
indeed,  were  surrounded  by  such  circumstances  as  admitted 
of  their  being  ignored  rather  than  compounded. 

All  the  documents  by  which  he  had  seemed  to  secure  a 
merely  nominal  possession  of  the  Haymore  estate  concerned 
the  name  of  Randolph  Hay,  and  for  all  the  law  or  the  public 
knew,  or  need  know,  that  name  had  been  claimed  only  by 
its  real  owner,  the  gentleman  now  in  peaceable  possession 
of  the  Haymore  estate,  and  never  by  the  impostor  who  had 
tried  to  take  it. 

So  there  was  no  legal  obligation  upon  any  one  to  bring  a 
criminal  prosecution  for  fraud  and  forgery  upon  the  dying 
malefactor. 

And  as  to  his  heavier  crimes  of  bigamy,  robbery  and  at 
tempted  murder  which  had  been  committed  in  the  United 
States,  there  was  not  the  least  likelihood  that  his  surrender 
under  the  extradition  treaty  would  ever  be  demanded  by 
that  government  to  answer  for  them  before  an  American 
tribunal. 

All  whom  he  had  so  deeply  injured,  or  tried  to  injure, 
had  freely  forgiven  him — all,  that  is  to  say,  except  Lamia 
Leegh,  who  in  her  bitter  humiliation  was  incapable  of  for 
giving  him. 

The  rector  had  to  strive  and  pray  for  grace  before  he 
could  pardon  the  man  who  had  wronged  his  daughter.  But 
after  this  grace  was  given,  James  Campbell  spent  many 
hours  beside  the  bed  of  the  dying  man,  reading  to  him, 
praying  with  him,  persuading  him  to  repentance,  exhorting 
him  to  faith. 

Gentleman  Geff  was  despairing,  and  at  times  defiant  in 
his  despair. 

"You  needn't  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Campbell.  I  am  as  the 
devil  made  me.  As  I  'have  sown'  I  'must  reap.'  If  there 
is  anything  that  can  give  me  satisfaction  now,  it  is  that, 
after  all,  I  have  no  blood  on  my  conscience.  Bad  as  you 
may  think  me,  I  was  never  cut  out  for  a  murderer.  No, 
nor  for  a  drunkard.  Circumstances,  temptation,  oppor 
tunity — these  make  destiny.  I  took  to  drink  to  drown  re 
morse.  I  was  a  fool  for  feeling  it.  Bah !  how  can  a  creature 


374  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

of  destiny  be  responsible  for  anything  he  does?    Yet  I  am 
glad  there  is  no  blood  on  my  hands." 

Mr.  Campbell  had  spoken  to  Jennie,  asking  her  if  she 
could  not  overcome  her  repugnance  so  far  as  to  go  in  and 
speak  to  Montgomery,  now  that  he  was  in  his  senses. 

But  Jennie  shuddered,  as  she  replied: 

"Papa,  he  has  never  even  asked  to  «ee  me,  and  I  am  glad 
he  has  not.  I  have  forgiven  him.  Indeed,  indeed  I  have! 
And  I  pray  for  him.  Indeed,  indeed  I  do!  Not  only  night 
and  morning,  at  the  regular  prajers,  but  through  the  day, 
whenever  I  think  of  him,  I  pray  for  him  earnestly,  ferv 
ently.  I  do !  But,  papa,  I  cannot  even  endure  the  thought 
of  seeing  him." 

"Then,  my  child,  you  have  not  truly  forgiven  him.  You 
must  pray  for  yourself,  dear — for  the  gift  of  the  grace  of 
charity,"  gravely  replied  the  rector. 

No,  Gentleman  Gen*  had  never  asked  to  see  his  wife  or 
child :  never  even  referred  to  either.  Mr.  Campbell  was  not 
sure  that  the  man  knew  they  were  in  the  house. 

But  one  morning,  when  the  rector  was  sitting  beside  him, 
Montgomery  suddenly  said : 

"I  think  it  is  a  confounded  shame  that  a  sick  man  cannot 
be  permitted  to  see  his  wife  and  child." 

"But  you  can  be  permitted  to  see  them.  Do  you  wish  to 
do  so?"  gently  inquired  the  minister. 

"I  should  think  I  did.  I  have  never  even  set  eyes  on  the 
boy,  and  he  must  be  about  nine  months  old  by  this  time." 

"Your  child  is  not  a  boy,  but  a  girl,"  said  the  rector. 

"Now  there!  I  did  not  even  know  the  sex  of  my  own 
child,  who  is  nearly  a  year  old,  and  has  been  under  the  same 
roof  with  me  for  several  weeks.  And  this  a  Christian  house 
hold!" 

"If  you  feel  equal  to  the  interview,  I  will  go  and  call 
my  daughter  now  and  ask  her  to  come  and  bring  the  little 
girl." 

"No.  Let  her  come  alone  the  first  time.  One  at  a  time 
is  all  I  can  stand." 

James  Campbell  went  down  to  the  back  parlor,  where  he 
found  his  wife  and  daughter  seated  at  their  needlework. 

Jennie,  my  darling,"  he  said,  gently  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  "Montgomery  has  just  asked  to  see  you.  Will 
you  come  to  him?" 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  375 

"Oh,  papa!  I  cannot!  I  cannot!"  she  replied,  with  a 
shiver. 

"Not  come  to  a  dying — yes,  I  must  say  it,"  he  added, 
after  a  painful  hesitation — "husband,  when  he  sends  for 
you?" 

"He  has  forfeited  that  name,  papa,"  very  firmly  replied 
the  wronged  wife. 

"But  you  must  forgive  him,  my  child." 

"I  do  forgive  him." 

"Well,  then,  you  must  come  with  me  to  him." 

"Oh,  papa,  I  cannot!     Indeed  I  cannot!" 

"Then  you  do  not  forgive  him,  although  he  is  dying?" 

"Is  he  dying,  papa?"  she  inquired  in  a  pitiful  voice. 

"Not  this  moment,  my  dear.  But  Dr.  Hobbs  declares 
that  he  cannot  live  many  days  in  any  case,  and  may  not  live 
an  hour  if  another  hemorrhage  should  come  on.  Will  you 
come  with  me,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  papa,  I  cannot!" 

" Jennie,  how  can  you  be  so  hard-hearted?"  demanded 
her  mother,  now  entering  into  the  conversation  for  the  first 
time.  "I  am  ashamed  of  you,  and  afraid  for  you  lest  you 
be  punished.  After  the  man  is  dead  and  gone,  and  you  can 
never  be  kind  to  him  again,  you  will  be  sorry.  Go,  at  least, 
and  speak  to  him  if  you  only  stay  one  minute." 

"Cbme,  Jennie,"  said  her  father. 

And  then  the  young  woman  arose  and  followed  the 
clergyman  to  the  sick  room. 

She  entered  that  room  under  protest ;  but  when  she  saw 
the  ghastly,  death-stricken  face,  the  skeleton  hand  stretched 
out  to  her,  the  hollow,  sunken,  unearthly  eyes  fixed  upon 
her,  she  uttered  a  low  cry  of  horror  and  pity,  and  sank  down 
on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  took  his  hand  and  dropped 
her  face  upon  it. 

The  rector  turned  and  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
after  him. 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry !  What  is  the  use  ?  Jennie,  I  am 
sorry  that  I  ever  hurt  you  in  any  way.  That  is  what  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you,  and  that  is  why  I  sent  for  you,"  he 
said,  speaking  in  a,  rather  faint  and  faltering  voice. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  sobbed  in  silence. 

"Jennie,  did  you  hear  what  I  said  to  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  heard,"  she  sighed. 


576  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Well,  I  said  I  was  sorry  I  hurt  you.  Well,  Jennie?"  he 
asked,  and* then  paused  as  if  expecting  some  definite  answer. 

"I,  too,  am  sorry  that  you  hurt  me,  or  anybody  else,  or 
yourself  worse  than  all,  Kightly.  I  am  very  sorry,  and  I 
pray  to  the  Lord  for  you  daily,  almost  hourly.  Do  you  pray 
for  yourself,  Kightly?" 

"No,  I  don't!  What  would  be  the  use?  'God  is  not 
mocked/  " 

"But  'He  is  full  of  compassion/  Kightly.    He " 

"There,  that  will  do!"  said  the  sick  man,  interrupting 
her.  "You  know  nothing  about  it!  Go  now.  I  have  said 
what  I  sent  for  you  to  say  to  you.  Now  go,  please.  I  can't 
stand  much  of  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  muttered  in  a  weak, 
petulant  voice. 

"I  will  come  again  to  you  when  you  want  me,  Kightly," 
she  said,  rising. 

"All  right.  And  bring  the  youngster — but  not  to-day. 
There,  there — go  along  with  you,"  said  the  man,  turning  his 
face  to  the  wall  and  closing  his  eyes.  Jennie  left  the  room. 

The  next  day  she  took  the  baby  in  to  see  its  father. 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  and  sat  the  baby 
on  the  top  of  the  bed  near  its  father's  head. 

And  there  she  watched  it. 

The  man  showed  but  very  little  interest  in  his  child. 

"I  thought,  of  course,  it  was  a  boy,"  he  said;  "but,  poor 
little  devil,  it  is  better  that  it  should  be  a  girl,  for  I  have 
no  money  to  leave  it,  but  being  a  girl,  it  can  marry  some 
of  these  days  and  live  on  some  other  fellow's  money.  Take 
it  away  now,  Jennie.  I  can't  stand  much  of  it,"  he  said. 

And  the  mortified  young  mother  took  away  the  dazed  and 
depressed  baby  and  afterward  said  to  her  own  mamma : 

"I  never  knew  Essie  to  behave  so  stupidly.  You  might 
have  thought  she  was  a  little  idiot." 

"Poor  baby!  The  dark  room  and  the  haggard  man  sub 
dued  her  spirits.  It  is  a  wonder  she  had  not  cried,"  re 
plied  the  grandmother. 

"I  am  very  glad  she  did  not — that  would  have  made  him 
•worse,"  said  Jennie. 

After  this  the  sinking  man  declined  daily. 

Jennie  spent  hours  at  his  bedside,  often  having  the  baby 
With  her  when  he  could  bear  it. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  37T 

Mrs.  Campbell  had  been  a  daily  visitor  and  an  occasional 
nurse  from  the  time  he  was  first  brought  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Longman  never  left  him  except  for  necessary  rest 
and  refreshment. 

The  gamekeeper's  cottage  was  ready  for  occupancy,  but 
neither  the  mother  nor  the  son  would  leave  the  suffering 
sinner  to  take  possession  of  its  comforts  and  emoluments. 

And  Ran  heartily  excused  them  both  under  the  circum 
stances  and  paid  the  man's  salary. 

Gentleman  Gen3  had  never  been  told  of  the  death  of  his 
cousin,  the  Viscount  Stoors.  It  was  thought  by  his  at 
tendants  that  the  news  of  the  decease  of  a  relative  that  left 
him,  the  dying  sinner,  heir  presumptive  of  an  earldom, 
would  be,  if  not  too  sorrowful,  certainly  too  startling,  too 
exciting  for  the  safety  of  an  invalid,  whose  pulse  must  not 
be  hurried  in  the  slightest  degree  lest  it  should  bring  on  a 
hemorrhage  that  must  carry  off  the  patient. 

One  day,  about  this  time,  Montgomery  rallied,  and 
seemed  so  much  better  that  the  doctor  allowed  him  to  sit 
up  in  bed,  propped  by  pillows. 

Mr.  Campbell  sat  by  him,  reading  aloud  the  morning's 
paper,  when  Longman  came  in  bringing  a  letter,  which  he 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  rector. 

It  was  in  a  deep,  black-bordered'  envelope,  sealed  with  a 
broad  black  seal  and  directed  to 

THE  REV.  JAMES  CAMPBELL, 
Haymore  Rectory, 

Haymore,  Yorkshire. 

"Excuse  me !"  he  said,  and  stepped'  quickly  to  the  furthest 
window  lest  the  sick  man  should  see  the  herald  of  death. 

He  opened  and  read  the  letter,  which  was  from  Abel 
Stout,  the  steward  of  Engelwode,  and  was  as  follows: 

"ENGELWODE  CASTLE, 

"May  28,  187—. 

"REV.  AND  DEAR  SIR  :  It  is  my  painful  duty  to  announce 
to  you  the  decease  of  Charles-George-Francis-Henry,  tenth 
earl  of  Engelmeed,  who  expired  at  one-fifteen  this  A.  M., 
and  of  the  succession  of  Capt.  the  Hon.  Kightiy  Mont 
gomery  as  eleventh  earl.  I  inclose  a  letter,  which  I  beg  yoitt 


378  FOil  WHOSE  SAKE? 

to  Be  so  kind  as  to  hand  to  his  lordship,  if  my  lord  is  still 
in  your  house,  or  to  forward  to  his  address  if  he  should  have 
left,  as  the  presence  of  his  lordship  here  is  imperatively 
necessary.  I  have  the  honor  to  remain,  reverend  sir, 

"Your  obedient  servant, 
"ABEL  STOUT." 

The  inclosed  letter  was  superscribed  very  formally  in  full 
title  to 

The  Right  Honorable 

THE  EARL  OF  ENGELMEED. 

James  Campbell  stared  at  this  superscription  and  then 
glanced  at  the  wreck  on  the  bed,  who  now  bore  the  dignity 
of  an  earldom. 

He  could  not  hesitate  to  deliver  this  letter,  however  it 
might  affect  his  patient.  He  must  deliver  it !  He  had  no 
choice. 

But  what  a  shock !  what  a  revelation !  what  a  mockery  it 
would  now  be  to  him ! — to  him  who  had  sinned  for  wealth 
and  rank,  who  had  sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage 
and  found  the  dish — poisoned  ! 

The  Earl  of  Engelmeed  was  dead.  His  son  and  heir- 
apparent  had  died  before  him,  and  now — their  next  of  kin, 
their  worthless  relative,  Kightly  Montgomery,  the  penniless 
adventurer,  who  had  been  driven  by  greed  of  gold  and  love 
of  luxury  to  crime  and  to  death — the  sinful,  dying  Kightly 
Montgomery,  was  now  master  of  Engelwode,  with  a  rent  roll 
of  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year ! 

Ah,  if  he  had  only  been  good  and!  true,  he  would  have 
lived  to  enjoy  the  old  title  and  the  rich  estate — more  honors 
than  he  could  possibly  have  gained  by  all  his  crimes,  even 
though  each  one  of  them  had  been  a  complete  success ! 

But  now,  what  a  cruel  mockery  of  fate! 

Mr.  Campbell,  reflecting  on  all  these  matters,  felt  really 
sorry  for  the  wretched  criminal,  to  whom  the  unexpected 
news  of  his  succession  to  the  earldom,  coming  to  him  in  his 
last  hours,  must  truly  seem  the  bitterest  irony  of  fortune. 

"You  have  bad  news  there,"  said  the  dying  man,  glancing 
at  the  broad,  black-edged  envelope. 

"Yes,  I  fear  so.  It  comes  from  Engelwode,  in  Cumber 
land,  where  you  have  relatives,  I  think,"  replied  the  rector 
gravely. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  379 

"Oh,  yes,  relatives!"  sneered  the  new  earl,  who  did  not 
even  suspect  that  he  was  one. 

"  'A  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind/ 

There  is  no  love  lost  between  us,  believe  me." 

Hearing  this,  the  rector  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to 
be  very  cautious  in  breaking  this  news.  Nevertheless,  he 
said: 

"Let  me  give  you  your  restorative  before  we  say  anything 
more  about  the  letter." 

And  he  arose  and  poured  out  the  draught,  some  powerful 
tonic,  compounded  of  beef,  coca  and  brandy,  and  admin 
istered  it.  Then  he  replaced  the  glass  on  the  table  and 
said: 

"The  letter  is  for  you,  my  lord." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the  new  eai_. 

"Will  you  take  the  letter  and  look  at  it ?  Have  you  light 
enough  ?  Shall  I  draw  up  the  shades  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  patient,  taking  the  letter  and  squinting 
at  it.  "This  is  for  my  uncle,  not  for  me.  Though  how  it 
should  have  come  here  I  can't  imagine." 

"Your  lordship's  uncle,  the  late  earl,  is  dead,  my  lord," 
quietly  replied  the  rector. 

"Dead!" 

"Yes." 

"Dead  !    But  there  is  Stoors." 

"He  died  before  his  father.  But  read  your  letter,  my 
lord,"  said  the  rector,  purposely  ringing  the  changes  on  the 
title  that  he  would  have  too  much  good  taste  to  bestow  on 
the  heir  of  an  earldom  under  ordinary  circumstances,  but 
on  this  impenitent  sinner,  on  this  unpunished  felon,  on  this 
dying  peer,  he  lavished  the  honor  with  unction  in  the  very 
bitterness  of  irony. 

"Read  your  letter,  my  lord." 

"I  cannot !  Oh,  this  is  too  terrible!"  groaned  the  dying 
earl,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Did  he  mean,  or  did  the  rector  for  one  moment  believe 
that  he  meant,  the  sudden  death  of  his  relatives,  so  near 
together,  was  too  terrible  ? 

No,  indeed.  The  man  meant,  and  the  rector  knew  that 
he  meant,  to  receive  this  rich  and  august  inheritance  just  at 


380  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

the  hour  of  death  was  indeed  "too  terrible" — was  insup 
portable. 

Poor  wretch !  he  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed  aloud,  drop 
ping  back  on  his  pillow  and  turning  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"Pray  try  to  be  calm,,  my  lord.  This  emotion  will  do 
you  a  mischief,"  pleaded  Mr.  Campbell. 

"Go  and  bring  my  wife  and  child  to  me.  Let  me  tell 
them  the  news,"  he  exclaimed,  and  then  burst  into  the  most 
sarcastic  peal  of  laughter  the  rector  thought  he  had  ever 
heard.  He  left  the  room  and  went  to  find  his  daughter, 
whom  he  came  upon,  as  usual,  seated  beside  her  mother  and 
engaged  in  needlework  over  the  baby's  cradle. 

"Come,  my  dear.  Montgomery  wants  you.  Bring  the 
little  one  along  with  you.  And,  Hetty,  dear,  you  had  better 
come  also,"  he  said. 

Both  women  looked  up  anxiously,  half  expecting  that  this 
was  their  final  summons  to  the  sick  room;  that  now  "the 
end  of  earth"  for  Kightly  Montgomery  was  at  hand. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Jim?"  inquired  Hetty,  while 
Jennie's  eyes  asked  the  same  question. 

"News  of  Montgomery's  relatives  in  Cumberland,  that  is 
all,"  replied  the  rector. 

"What  news?"  demanded  Hetty. 

"He  prefers  to  announce  it  in  person." 

"Dear  me!  How  mysterious  we  are!  Come  on,  Jen 
nie!"  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  taking  her  husband's  arm  and 
leading  the  way. 

'Jennie  picked  up  her  baby  and  followed. 

They  entered  the  sick  room. 

The  sick  man  held  out  his  hand  to  his  wife,  saying : 

"  Come  here,  Jennie,  my  girl !  You  are  Countess  of 
Engelmeed!  Did  you  know  it?  And  that  doll  in  your 
arms  is  Lady  Esther  Montgomery ! — for  a  few  hours  only 
while  I  draw  the  breath  of  life,  Afterward  you  will  only 
be  countess  dowager,  while  she  will  be  countess  in  her  own 
right.  For  the  earldom  of  Engelmeed  is  not  a  male  feoff 
exclusively,  but  failing  the  male  line  which  fails  in  me,  will 
'fall  to  the  distaff/  as  represented  by  that  rag  baby  of  yours. 

So  I  think — you  are  com "  He  paused  in  sudden  pain 

and  prostration. 

"Do  not  speak  again  for  the  present,  my  lord.    You  will 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  381 

hurt  yourself.  Eest  a  while/'  said  the  rector,  while  Jennie 
looked  at  her  mother  in  helpless  dismay. 

"He  is  delirious  again,  my  dear,"  whispered  Mrs,  Camp 
bell  in  reply  to  that  look. 

"  Stoop  down "  muttered  the  dying  man  in  a  low, 

faint,  husky  voice. 

Jennie  bent  over  him  to  catch  his  failing  words. 

"You  will  be — compensated — for  all — you  have  gone 
through — by  being  made — a  countess — you  ought " 

His  voice  suddenly  ceased.  A  spasm  of  pain  traversed 
his  face. 

"My  lord!  my  lord!  Have  mercy  on  yourself  and  keep 
still,"  pleaded  the  rector. 

It  was  too  late.  A  wild  look  flew  into  the  eyes  of  the 
dying  man  and  fixed  them  on  the  rector's  face.  A  torrent 
of  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth.  Gentleman  Geff  had 
spoken  his  last  words,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  had 
drawn  his  last  breath. 

Jennie  threw  herself  sobbing  into  the  arms  of  her  father. 
She  was  too  young  to  have  much  self-control,  but  whether 
now  she  wept  from  grief,  horror  or  compassion,  or  all  three 
combined,  she  could  not  herself  have  told. 

Her  father  took  her  babe  to  his  bosom  and  led  her  to  her 
own  room,  where  he  made  her  lie  down  on  her  bed  and 
placed  the  child  beside  her. 

The  rector  went  to  his  study  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
steward  at  Engelwode,  telling  him  what  had  happened. 

Then  he  walked  over  to  Haymore  Hall  to  carry  the  news 
to  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  and  to  confer  with  him  on  what  was 
next  to  be  done. 

Ran  and  Judy  were  both  shocked  and  grieved  at  the  fate 
of  their  enemy — their  enemy,  however,  only  in  so  far  as  he 
tried  to  wrong  them  primarily  with  the  wish  to  benefit  him 
self  rather  than  to  injure  them. 

"The  remains  should  be  taken  to  Engelwode  Castle  and 
placed  in  the  family  vault,  of  course,"  said  the  rector.  "And 
as  the  last  earl  died  without  having  had  time  to  make  a 
will  between  his  succession  and  his  death,  my  granddaugh 
ter,  the  little  countess,  will  be  a  ward  in  chancery." 

"And  no  doubt  the  lord  chancellor  will  constitute  you, 
sir,  the  guardian  ef  her  person  and  a  trustee  of  her  estate," 
added  Ran. 


SS2  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

"Perhaps — most  likely,  indeed;  in  which  case  they  will 
associate  some  other  reliable  man  with  me  in  the  onerous 
charge.  And  I  should  like  you  to  be  that  man,  Hay," 
pleaded  the  parson. 

"With  pleasure;  if  the  lord  chancellor  will  appoint  me," 
answered  Ran. 

"Is  Jennie  much  distressed,  sir?"  inquired  Judy,  sym 
pathetically. 

"Yes,  madam.    She  is  very  much  agitated." 

"May  I  go  to  her?     Could  I  do  her  any  good?" 

"I  feel  sure  you  could.  I  should  feel  very  grateful  to 
you." 

Judy  hurried  into  the  house  and  got  her  wraps,  and 
Came  out  to  join  the  rector  in  his  walk  homeward. 

At  the  rectory  door  they  were  met  by  Mrs.  Campbell,  who, 
after  very  gravely  saluting  Judy  and  thanking  her  for  com 
ing,  turned  to  the  rector  and  inquired : 

"What  was  all  that  the  wretched  man  was  rambling 
about  in  his  last  hour  ?  Was  there  any  foundation  of  truth 
in  it?" 

"It  was  all  truth,  Hetty,  from  foundation  rock — to  carry 
out  your  simile — to  capping  stone;  and  baby  Essie  is  now 
Countess  of  Engelmeed  in  her  own  right  and  a  ward  in 
chancery.'' 

"Well,  well,  well !  She  doesn't  know  it — Jennie,  I  mean, 
of  course.  She  thinks  he  was  out  of  his  head." 

"Yes,  I  saw  she  did;  but  it  is  true,"  said  the  rector,  as 
they  entered  the  house. 

A  week  later  the  remains  of  the  last  Earl  of  Engelmeed 
were  laid  in  the  vault  of  his  forefathers,  amid  all 

"The  pride,  pomp  and  circumstance" 

of  funeral  parade. 

After  the  ceremonies  the  rector,  with  his  wife,  daughter 
and  grandchild,  returned  to  the  rectory-,  where  they  were 
all  to  live  during  the  minority  of  the  infant  countess. 

Ran  and  Judy  came  back  to  their  beloved  home,  but  had 
scarcely  got  settled  there  when  they  received  letters  an 
nouncing  the  speedy  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart, 
with  their  children  and  a  friend — Mr.  O'Melaghlin,  of 
Arghalee,  in  Antrim. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  383 

"I  wonder  who  he  is,"  pondered  Ran,  as  he  took  the-  letter 
over  to  the  rectory  to  show  it  to  Mr.  Campbell. 

"Why,  I  know  the  name  and  the  place,  but  not  the  man. 
I  have  been  to  Arghalee.  All  except  the  very  ground  on 
which  the  ancient  castle  stands,  and  which  the  impoverished 
O'Melaghlin  would  not  sell  under  any  stress  of  fortune, 
forms  a  part  of  the  duke's  estate.  The  castle  is  one  of  the' 
show  places  of  the  neighborhood ;  not  for  its  parks,  planta 
tions  or  picture  galleries,  by  any  means — for  there  are  none 
— but  for  the  great  antiquity  of  the  ruins.  The  owner  was 
supposed  to  be  traveling  abroad.  He  is  The  O'Melaghlin 
in  question,  of  course.  The  guidebook  to  the  ancient  castle 
shows  the  family  to  be  lineal  descendants  from  Roderick 
O'Melaghlin,  monarch  of  Meath,  and  more  remotely  from 
Konn,  a  somewhat  mythical  king  of  prehistoric  Ireland. 
So,  you  see,  you  will  have  an  illustrious  guest,  though  he 
may  be  as  poor  as  'Job's  turkey.' ' 

"  No ;  the  letter  says  he  has  made  an  immense  fortune  in 
the  gold  mines  of  Australia,  and  is  coming  back  to  live  on 
his  estate." 

"When  do  you  expect  them?" 

"By  the  next  steamer — for  this  letter  was  written  from 
New  York  the  day  before  they  were  to  start." 

"Ah!"  said  the  rector. 

And  Ran,  having  communicated  his  good  news,  went 
home  to  his  Judy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL" 

MEANWHILE,  Cleve,  Palma,  their  children,  servant,  and, 
last  and  loftiest,  The  O'Melaghlin  were  coming  over  as  fast 
as  wind  and  steam  could  bring  them. 

They  had  unusually  fine  weather  for  the  whole  trip.  They 
made  some  very  pleasant  acquaintances,  and  formed  some 
very  fast  friendships  among  their  fellow  passengers,  with 
whom  they  were  all  very  popular. 

The  eccentricities  of  The  O'Mclaghlin  were  endless 
sources  of  amusement  to  the  passengers  as  to  our  own 


384  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

party,  to  whom  they  were  also  causes  of  frequent  annoy 
ance. 

For  instance,  O'Melaghlin  always  addressed  Mr.  Cleve 
Stuart  as  "Wolfscliff."  And  not  infrequently,  when  he 
had  had  too  much  wine  for  dinner,  the*  chieftain  would  ha.il 
his  friend  from  across  the  table  as  "O'Wolfscliff,"  or  speak 
of  him  to  another  person  as  "The  O'Wolfaclifl1." 

Besides  this,  ho  would  reiterate,  in  season  and  out  of  ser 
son,  his  injunction  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleve  Stuart  shoul 
preserre,  inviolate,  the  secret  of  his  relationship  to  Mike 
and  Judy. 

"Moind  ye  don't  let  on  to  them,"  he  repeated.  "I  am 
to  be  inthrodooced  as  a  frind  of  your  own,  claiming,  in 
right  of  you,  the  hospitality  of  Misther  and  Misthrcss  Ran 
dolph  Hay.  And  I  am  to  have  a  week  or  tin  days  to  observe 
me  childer  before  they  suspect  me-.  That  will  lave  me  find 
them  out  as  they  are  widout  pritinces.  Do  ye  moind.?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Stuart  would  reply,  heartily  tired,  yet  half 
amused  at  the  ^an's  persistence. 

"And  yerself  will  not  brathe  a  syllable  that  will  lave 
them  suspict  Fm  anything  to  themselves,  Misthress 
Stuart?"  he  persevered,  turning  to  Palma. 

"Not  a  syllable,  O'Melaghlin,"  she  answered. 

This  funny  persecution  ceased  for  the  time,  to  be  renewed 
as  soon  as  they  landed  at  Liverpool,  and  continued  all  the 
way  from  that  city  to  York,  and  from  there  to  Chuxton. 

"Not  a  hint,  not  a  breath,  not  a  look,  to  bethray  to  the 
childer  that  they  behold  in  me  the  father  of  them,  and  a 
discindint  of  the  ancient  kings  of  Meath,"  he  said,  as  the 
train  drew  into  the  Chuxton  station. 

"  'Not  a  hint,  not  a  breath,  not  a  look'  from  us  shall 
betray  your  secret,  O'Melaghlin,"'  Cleve  assured  him. 

"No,' indeed,"  Palma  added. 

"Be  the  powers,  if  ye  bethray  me,  I  nivir  spake  to  aither 
of  yez  again." 

"There,"  said  Stuart,  as  they  all  rose  to  leave  the  train, 
"there  is  Mr.  Randolph  Hay  himself  come  in  the  barouche 
to  meet  us." 

"Where?"  demanded  The  O'Melaghlin. 

"There,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  That  gentleman 
in  the  open  carriage  with  the  fine  bays  and  the  footman  in 
russet  livery,"  replied  Cleve,  pointing  to  the  "turnout." 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  385 

"Be  the  club  of  Konn  !  That  foine  fellow  the  son-in-law 
of  meself !" 

"Yes,  indeed!" 

"The  gintleman  that  married  me  Judy  when  she  was  a 
nady  orphan,  and  he  didn't  suspict  she  could  be  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  hundred  kings?" 

"The  very  same," 

"Let  me  at  him !"  exclaimed  The  O'Melaghlin,  pushing 
to  the  front  and  passing  through  the  crowd  on  the  platform 
to  the  side  of  the  barouche,  just  as  Ran  got  down  from  his 
seat  to  welcome  his  friends. 

"I'm  The  O'Melaghlin,  Misther  Hay.  And  it's  proud  I 
am  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  ye.  You're  a  noble  man, 
that  ye  are — that  ye  are.  Wolf  scliff  is  behoind.  I  could  not 
wait  for  him  to  inthrodooce  you.  But  I'm  The  O'Melaghlin, 
and  you  are  Misther  Hay !"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  the  hand 
of  Ran  and  shaking  it  to  nearly  dislocation. 

Ran  was  somewhat  dismayed,  not  knowing  how  to  ac 
count  for  this  overwhelming  salute  that  almost  deprived 
him  of  the  power  to  respond,  and  say : 

"I  am  very  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  O'Melaghlin." 

"Misther?"  repeated  the  chief,  prompt  to  take  exception 
to  such  a  common  title  applied  to  himself. 

But  fortunately  Stuart  came  up,  shook  hands  with  Ran 
and  then  presented  Palma,  who  was  warmly  welcomed  by 
her  cousin. 

"And  now,  Wolfscliff,  will  ye  be  afther  mthrodoocing 
Misther  Hay  to  meself  ?"  demanded  Ran's  father-in-law. 

"Pardon,  I  thought  you  had,"  said  Stuart. 

"Divil  a  bit  could  I  do  that  same  to  his  intilHgince,"  re 
plied  the  other. 

"Then  I  will  have  that  honor,"  laughed  Stuart. 

And  assuming  the  courtly  dignity  of  a  lord  chamberlain 
at  a  royal  reception,  he  bowed  to  the  descendant  of  Irish 
kings,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  to  indicate  the  inferior 
person,  said: 

"The  O'Melaghlin,  of  Arghalee,  I  have  the  honor  to  pre*- 
sent  to  you,  sir,  Mr.  Randolph  Hay,  of  Haymore." 

Ran  bowed  very  solemnly,  conscious  now  that  he  stood 
in  the  presence  of  an  "eccentric." 

"And,  sure,  meself  fales  honored  in  the  relationship — I 
mane  the  acquaintanceship,"  graciously  replied  The  O'Me- 


386  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

laghlin,  feeling,  however,  that  he  had  almost  betrayed  him 
self. 

"  Will  you  take  seats  in  the  carriage  now  ?  My  servants 
are  here  with  the  break  and  a  van  to  bring  your  people  and 
luggage,"  said  Ran. 

Cleve  bowed  and  handed  Palma  to  a  back  seat,  and  The 
O'Melaghlin  to  a  place  beside  her.  Then  he.  took  a  front 
seat,  where  Ran  joined  him,  and  the  barouche  started  for 
Haymore  Hall. 

The  drive  through  the  beautiful  country,  now  in  the 
glory  of  early  summer,  charmed  both  Cleve  and  Palma. 

"It  is  a  boundless  Garden  of  Eden  !"  exclaimed  the  latter. 

But  beauty  and  glory  in  nature  was  quite  lost  on  The 
O'Melaghlin,  who  employed  the  time  in  descanting  to  his 
son-in-law  upon  the  ancient  royalty  and  grandeur  of  the 
O'Melaghlins  until  the  carriage  turned  into  the  park  gate, 
where  Longman  stood  to  welcome  them. 

"There,  that  was  a  foine  sivin-footer — that  retainer  of 
yours,  Haymore.  Jist  such  min  me  ancestor,  Roderick 
O'Melaghlin,  last  monarch  of  Meath,  had  for  his  bodyguard, 
armed  with  spears  and  battle-axes,  iviry  man  of  them,"  said 
the  chieftain,  as  the  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue  toward 
the  house. 

When  it  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Hall,  there  stood  Mike 
and  Judy,  the  beautiful  young  pair,  as  much  alike  in  their 
dark  loveliness  as  twin  brother  and  sister  could  possibly  be. 
Both  in  evening  dress;  Mike  in  the  conventional  black 
swallowtail  and  patent  leathers,  with  a  sprig  of  shamrock 
in  his  buttonhole  in  honor  of  the  visitor.  Judy  in  a  dark 
blue  satin  dress,  trained,  and  with  low  body  and  short 
sleeves,  showing  the  plump  neck  and  round  arms,  which 
were  now  dimly  veiled  with  fine  lace  and  adorned  with  the 
Haymore  diamonds  in  honor  of  the  guests. 

Behind  them  stood  an  array  of  servants. 

"There  is  your  son  and  daughter,  O'Melaghlin,"  whis 
pered  Palma  in  the  ear  of  the  chief,  as  he  sat  beside  her. 

He  looked  out  and  saw  the  beautiful  pair,  with  their 
lovely  faces  lighted  up  now  with  the  joy  of  expectancy. 

"What!  thim?  You  don't  mane  thim!"  he  exclaimed, 
gazing  at  them. 

"Yes,  I  do.    They  are  Mike  and  Judy." 

"Och  !  let  me  at  thim — the  angels  ! — the  beauties  !    They 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  387 

are  both  the  imidge  of  their  mother,  me  sainted  Moira ! 
Let  me  at  thim!" 

And  with  a  bound  The  O'Melaghlin  was  out  of  the 
barouche  and  tearing  up  the  stairs  to  the  presence  of  his 
astonished  children. 

Forgotten  were  all  his  plans  of  secrecy  and  covert  observa 
tion.  The  father's  pride  and  joy  in  the  Irishman's  warir 
heart  overbore  all  resolutions,  and  he  fell  upon  his  son  and 
daughter  with  ravenous  delight. 

"And  so  ye  are  me  own  childer — me  Mike  and  me  Judy  ! 
And  the  jewels  that  ye  are !"  he  exclaimed. 

But  it  was  Judy  he  clasped  to  his  breast  and  covered  with 
kisses. 

"Oh,  Mike!  Mike!  save  me!"  exclaimed  the  frightened 
and  distressed  daughter. 

"Will  ye  be  afther  kapin'  yer  hands  to  yerself?"  ex 
claimed  Mike,  who  thought  the  stranger  was  a  maniac,  and 
tried  to  separate  him  from  the  terrified  victim.  But  Mike 
was  no  match  for  The  O'Melaghlin. 

"Aisv!  aisy!"  exclaimed  the  chieftain.  "It's  jealous  ye 
are  of  me  affection  for  the  sister  av  ye !  But  your  turn  will 
come  nixt,  me  bhoy  !" 

Fortunately  Ran,  to  whom  Cleve  had  hastily  communi 
cated  the  now  open  secret,  came  hurrying  up  the  stairs,  leav 
ing  Stuart  and  Palma  for  the  moment  in  the  barouche. 

"Stop!  stop!  Mike,  my  lad!  The  gentleman  is  your 
father.  Yes,  dear  Judy,  your  father.  Do  not  be  afraid  of 
him,"  he  exclaimed,  coming  to  the  rescue  with  the  ex 
planation. 

"Yis,  darlint  Judy,  it's  the  fayther  av  ye  that's  pressin' 
ye  to  this  throbbin'  heart  av  him !  It's  the  fayther  av  ye, 
me  foine  Mike,  that  will  make  ye  the  lawful  heir  av  the 
oldest  name  and  richest  estate  in  ould  Ireland!  Yis,  I 
meant  to  have  kept  that  same  a  secret  till  I  had  watched 
the  natures  av  ye  both  for  a  wake  or  two,  but  me  affections 
were  too  much  for  me." 

While  he  spoke  he  was  kissing  Judy,  patting  Mike  on  the 
shoulder  or  embracing  them  both  and  holding  them  together 
to  his  breast. 

At  last,  quite  overcome  by  his  emotion,  he  sank  down 
upon  the  top  step  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  to 


388  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

hide  the  tears  that  might  have  seemed  a  reproach  to  the 
descendant  of  the  warlike  monarchs  of  Meath. 

Mike  and  Judy  raised  him  up  with  tender  care  and  led 
him  into  the  hall  and  thence  into  the  drawing-room,  while 
the  old  butler,  without  waiting  orders,  went  and  brought  a 
tray  with  a  decanter  of  brandy  and  a  glass. 

The  O'Melaghlin  saw  the  elixir  of  life  and  revived  at  the 
sight. 

Meanwhile  Ran  returned  to  the  barouche  to  conduct 
Stuart  and  Palma  to  the  house. 

"He  made  me  and  my  wife  swear  by  all  the  saints  in 
Christendom  that  we  would  not  betray  his  secret  until  he 
himself  should  give  us  leave,  and  lo !  he  ^°s  blurted  it  out 
himself,"  laughed  Stuart. 

"Yes.  He  seems  a  very  eccentric  person,  this  unex 
pected  father-in-law  of  mine.  Yet  I  like  what  I  have  seen 
of  him,"  replied  Ran. 

"You  will  like  him  better.  The  longer  you  know  him 
the  more  you  will  esteem  him.  And  if  you  will  consider 
the  eccentricities  of  his  fate  and  fortune,  you  will  under 
stand  and  forgive  the  eccentricities  of  bis  character,"  re 
plied  Cleve. 

And  then  they  followed  their  host  into  the  house  and  into 
the  drawing-room,  where  they  found  The  O'Melaghlin 
seated  on  a  sofa  between  his  son  and  daughter,  with  his  left 
arm  around  Judy's  waist,  and  in  his  right  hand  a  wineglass 
of  brandy  which  he  sipped  at  intervals,  while  Mike  held  the 
decanter  ready  to  replenish  the  glass  when  necessary. 

But  as  soon  as  Ran  came  in  with  the  Stuarts  The  O'Me 
laghlin  gave  the  glaes  to  Judy  to  hold  and  went  to  meet 
them. 

He  seized  the  hand  of  Ran,  and  shaking  it  again  cruelly 
and  almost  to  dislocation,  exclaimed : 

"Me  son-in-law!  Me  brave,  good,  thrue  bhoy !  I  have 
not  yet  greeted  ye,  nor  wilcomed  ye  as  me  son-in-law  !  But 
now  I  will  do  it,  with  the  highest  praise  mortal  man  could 
give  ye.  I  will  say :  Haymore,  sir,  ye  are  worthy  to  be  the 
husband  of  me  daughter  Judy  and  the  daughter  of  a  thou 
sand  kings." 

"I  thank  you,  sir.  I  am  sure  that  is  the  highest  praise 
you  could  give  me.  I  hope  it  is  true/'  gallantly  replied 
Kan. 


FOR  WHOSE  SAKE?  389 

Servants  were  at  hand  to  show  the  guests  to  their  apart 
ments. 

Mike  did  the  honors  to  his  father,  and  accompanied  him 
to  the  apartments  prepared  for  him. 

Judy  attended  Palma  to  the  beautiful  suit  of  rooms  that 
had  been  fitted  up  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart  and  their 
children. 

There  Judy  for  the  first  time  made  acquaintance  with 
Palma's  lovely  children,  whom  she  found  already  on  the 
nursery  cot,  asleep  and  attended  by  the  faithful  Hatty. 

"Why,  when  did  these  beauties  come?  Why  have  I  not 
seen  them  before?"  demanded  Judy. 

"They  came  in  the  second  carriage,  with  Hatty  and  Josias. 
I  would  trust  them  with  those  two  as  confidently  as  with 
myself  and  their  father,"  replied  Palma. 

"And  I  was  so  taken  by  surprise  at  the  sudden  meeting 
with  my  father  that  I  forgot  even  to  inquire  after  the 
darlings!  I  beg  your  little  pardons!"  said  Judy,  kneeling 
by  the  side  of  the  children's  cot  and  kissin0*  +heir  sleeping 
faces. 

At  dinner  the  newly  arrived  visitors  met  the  Eev.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Campbell.,  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  them.  Jennie 
— the  Countess  Dowager  of  Engelmeed — being  in  deep 
mourning  for  her  husband,  did  not  go  out  or  receive  visitors. 

A  week  of  idleness  on  the  part  of  all  the  family  followed 
at  Hay  more  Hall. 

After  that  questions  of  importance  were  taken  up. 

It  was  decided  that  The  O'Melaghlin,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hay  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Mike,  should  set  out  on 
an  excursion  to  Arghalee  Castle  and  find  lodging  at 
Arghalee  Arms,  and  from  that  vantage  point  investigate 
the  ancient  ruins  and  see  what  could  be  done  toward  the 
successful  restoration  of  the  castle,  also  open  negotiations 
with  the  duke's  legal  steward  if  possible  to  repurchase  all 
the  land  that  had  once  constituted  the  Arghalee  estate. 

All  this  was  happily  effected  in  the  course  of  a  few 
months — for  The  O'Melaghlin  stopped  at  nothing  in  his 
eager  desire  to  restore  the  ancient  magnificence  and  splen 
dor  of  his  house;  and  so  he  paid  twice  the  worth  of  the 
land  to  get  it  back,  and  fabulous  sums  to  the  antiquaries 
and  architects  to  restore  the  castle  and  the  chapel  in  all 
their  pristine  strength  and  glory. 


390  FOR  WHOSE  SAKE? 

The  Stuarts  remained  at  Haymore  until  the  last  of  the 
summer  and  then  bade  affectionate  adieus  to  the  Hays  and 
returned  to  Virginia. 

This  was  the  first  of  many  visits,  which  the  Hays  often 
returned. 

That  autumn  Mike  was  entered  as  Michael  O'Melaghlin, 
master  of  Arghalee,  in  one  of  the  best  preparatory  colleges 
in  Glasgow. 

That  winter,  when  "Burke's  Landed  Gentry"  appeared, 
under  the  name  of  Hay  it  contained  this  item: 

Hay,  Randolph,  born  January  1,  185 — ,  succeeded  his 
father  March  1,  187 — ,  married  December  2,  187 — ,  Judith, 
only  daughter  of  Michael,  The  O'Melaghlin,  Chief  of 
Arghalee,  Antrim. 

And  the  anxious  soul  of  Will  Walling,  when  he  received 
a  copy  of  the  book  with  the  marked  passage,  was  entirely 
satisfied. 

And  New  Year's  Day  brought  Ran  and  Judy  a  New 
Year's  gift,  in  the  form  of  a  son  and  heir,  which  filled  the 
hearts  of  the  parents  with  bliss. 


THE  END 


BUB/T'S  SERIES  o/  STANDARD  FICTION. 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  Frauce  in  the  reign  of  King  Louis  XIII.  By  G.  P. 
R.  James.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

In  1S29  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  was 
recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during-  those  later  days  of  the  great  car 
dinal's  life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  was 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir 
acy;  the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  insight  into  the  state 
craft  of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  in  point  of  thrilling 
ind  absorbing  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.  A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.  By 
Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  zamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  a 
singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Times  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Win.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  12010.  with 
four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  is  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char 
acters  of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
in  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  over  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of  the  American  Re  volution. 
By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  121110.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  f  i.oo. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
it  is  charming. 

GARTHOWEN.  A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.  By  Allen  Rain e.  Cloth, 
izrno.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
Welsh  character— the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
.  We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
clever  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent."— Detroit  Free 
Press. 

MIFANWY.  The  story  of  a  Welsh  Singer.  By  Allan  Rainc.  Cloth, 
i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  to 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  is  ap 
parent  at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  though  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  no  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  introduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
does  not  tax  the  imagination." — Boston  Herald. 


BURT'S  SERIES  o/  STANDARD  FICTION. 

DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2tno.  -with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  $1.00. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  was 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  the  cloth  of 
gold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
he  succeeds  in  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  love. 

WINDSOR  CASTLE.    A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.    By  \Vm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.    Cloth. 
i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshauk.    Price,  $1.00. 

"Windsor  Castle"  is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his-  mar 
riage  to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  it 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro 
lina  in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  field  of  what  is  known  as  historical  fic 
tion,  there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  which  depicts 
with  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro 
lina  to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  British 
under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over 
drawn,  but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  the 
winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
story,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  the 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  it  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
Illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OP  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  i2mo.  Illustrated.  Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  each 
time  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  straightway 
comes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  eome  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
came  into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
without  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos 
somed?  Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char 
acter  of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  the 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
Which  Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in  "The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island." 


BURT'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD   FICTION. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  in  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth.  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $ i. oo. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  The 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis 
sionaries  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant 
ing  of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  is 
Lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  arid  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  to 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vivid  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  it, 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em 
pire  might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender, 
runs  through  the  book. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OF  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  I,ieut. 
Henry  A.  Wise,  U.S.  N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustra 
tions  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  f  i.oo. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarns 
who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  which 
will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  in 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  has 
never  been  excelled,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
embellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OF  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  In 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  In  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  in  the  South,  nar 
rated  in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  very  charming 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  foi 
this  enchanting  story  from  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

GUY  FAWXES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Wm.  Harri 
son  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Price,  $1.00. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England, 
was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con 
cluded  to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.  A  very  intense  love  story  runs  through  the  entire  romance. 


HURT'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD   FICTION, 

TICONDEROGA  :  A  Story  of  Early  Frontier  Life  in  the  Mohawk  Valley. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  |i  .00. 

The  setting  of  the  story  is  decidedly  more  picturesque  than  any  ever 
evolved  by  Cooper:  The  frontier  of  New  York  State,  where  dwelt  an  English 
gentleman,  driven  from  his  native  home  by  grief  over  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
with  a  son  and  daughter.  Thither,  brought  by  the  exigencies  of  war,  cornea 
an  English  officer,  who  is  readily  recognized  as  that  Lord  Howe  who  met  his 
death  at  Ticonderoga.  As  a  most  natural  sequence,  even  amid  the  hostile 
demonstrations  of  both  French  and  Indians,  Lord  Howe  and  the  young  girl 
find  time  to  make  most  deliciously  sweet  love,  and  the  son  of  the  recluse  has 
already  lost  his  heart  to  the  daughter  of  a  great  sachem,  a  dusky  maiden 
whose  warrior-father  has  surrounded  her  with  all  the  comforts  of  a  civilized 
life. 

The  character  of  Captain  Brooks,  who  voluntarily  decides  to  sacrifice  his 
own  life  in  order  to  save  the  son  of  the  Englishman,  is  not  among  the  least 
of  the  attractions  of  this  story,  which  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  even 
to  the  last  page.  The  tribal  laws  and  folk  lore  of  the  different  tribes  of 
Indiana  known  as  the  "Five  Nations,"  with  which  the  story  is  interspersed, 
shows  that  the  author  gave  no  small  amount  of  study  to  the  work  in  question, 
and  nowhere  else  is  it  shown  more  plainly  than  by  the  skilful  manner  in 
which  he  has  interwoven  with  his  plot  the  "blood"  law,  which  demands  a 
life  for  a  life,  whether  it  be  that  of  the  murderer  or  one  of  his  race. 

A  more  charming  story  of  mingled  love  and  adventure  has  never  been 
written  than  "Ticonderoga." 

ROB  OF  THE  BOWL  :  A  Story  of  the  Early  Days  of  Maryland.  By  John 
P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  $1.00. 

It  was  while  he  was  a  member  of  Congress  from  Maryland  that  the 
noted  statesman  wrote  this  story  regarding  the  early  history  of  his  native 
State,  and  while  some  critics  are  inclined  to  consider  "Horse  Shoe  Robinson" 
as  the  best  of  his  works,  it  is  certain  that  "Rob  of  the  Bowl"  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  list  as  a  literary  production  and  an  authentic  exposition  of  the 
manners  and  customs  during  Lord  Baltimore's  rule.  The  greater  portion  of 
the  action  takes  place  in  St.  Mary's — the  original  capital  of  the  State. 

As  a  series  of  pictures  of  early  colonial  life  in  Maryland,  "Rob  of  the 
Bowl"  has  no  equal,  and  the  book,  having  been  written  by  one  who  had 
exceptional  facilities  for  gathering  material  concerning  the  individual  mem 
bers  of  the  settlements  in  and  about  St.  Mary's,  Is  a  most  valuable  addition 
to  the  history  of  the  State. 

The  story  is  full  of  splendid  action,  with  a  charming  love  story,  and  a 
plot  that  never  loosens  the  grip  of  its  interest  to  its  last  page. 

BY  BERWEN  BANKS.    By  Allen  Raine. 

It  is  a  tender  and  beautiful  romance  of  the  idyllic.  A  charming  picture 
of  life  in  a  Welsh  seaside  village.  It  is  something  of  a  prose-poem,  true, 
tender  and  graceful. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Chauncey  C,  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  121110.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

The  story  opens  in  the  month  of  April,  1775,  with  the  provincial  troops 
nurrying  to  the  defense  of  Lexington  and  Concord.  Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched 
in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery  and  true  love  that  thrills  from 
beginning  to  end  with  the  spirit  of  the  Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly, 
and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a  part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  You 
lay  the  book  aside  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  seen  a  gloriously  true 
picture  of  the  Revolution.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing  that  you  will  8*^ 
up  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance  it  is  charming. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


7Jan'60C7> 

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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


961761 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


